Date: Sat, 8 Feb 2020 18:47:46 +0000 (UTC)
From: Peter Brown <badboi666@btinternet.com>
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 38

Bell had really pushed me that term.  The A-level results had convinced him
- and, more importantly, had convinced me - that aiming for a Cambridge
scholarship in December was within my capacity.  I'd passed Physics as
well, but my intention was to read Maths, so we let Physics slide, at least
for one term.  I have not named my school in this memoir (for good reason);
nor shall I name my College.  Instead I shall follow in the footsteps of
Professor Daniel, locating the fictional Fisher College in the small gap
between St. John's and Trinity.

Thus I made my way to Fisher early in December 2036.  The examination was
to be held over two days, with two three-hour papers each day.  Fisher had
a tradition (it was Bell's old college, and he had briefed me) that
scholarship candidates were expected to attend Hall for dinner on the three
evenings of their stay.  On one of the nights we, callow and nervous
youths, would sit with the Fellows at High Table, presumably so that, were
a candidate to be marginal in the matter of academic prowess, whether he
could hold a knife and fork and a conversation at the same time might
separate sheep from goats.  On the other two nights the candidate would be
thrown into to the melting pot of undergraduates a year older, and a decade
more urbane, than he.  All this Bell had taught me between bouts of
mind-stretching calculus and the higher geometries.  I was thoroughly
looking forward to it.

As I left school Bell wished me luck and suggested, almost in passing, that
I might care to attend Evensong in the Fisher Chapel.  As Rivers drove me
away I wondered what he had meant - chapel had never been anything other
than a compulsory chore at school.  Still, his advice on all other
Fisher-related matters had been serious and I decided I would do as he
suggested.  It couldn't do any harm, I supposed, if a scholarship candidate
was seen to be entering into the spirit of the thing.

I was directed to my room in the Old Court where someone had kindly lit the
gas fire.  Despite this it was freezing.  A little booklet given to me at
the Porter's Lodge advised me that Chapel was at 6.00 pm and Hall at 7.30.
A list of times for meals and exams was added, together with a handwritten
note inviting "The Earl of Inchkeith to take sherry with the Master and
Fellows in the Combination Room at 7.00 pm before dining with them at the
High Table".  This was to happen that evening.  Get the nobility out of the
way first, I supposed.  It was 5.30.  Quick look around and time to go and
see God.

The Fisher Chapel is world-famous, and even atheist Dab was impressed.  I
had no idea where to sit, so I just followed the person in front of me, and
found myself one of about 50 young men in suits - surely they weren't all
candidates?  Several older men filed in, garbed in black (and one or two in
scarlet) gowns with brightly-coloured hoods.  And then the choir processed
... and I saw why Bell had said I should attend.  (I hadn't made the
connection until then between Bell and certain interests of Prendergast;
I'm not sure why - perhaps our paths hadn't crossed when I was the right
age.)

The Fisher choir is almost as world-famous as the Chapel.  There were 16
trebles, but I could see only 8 of them.  The youngest was probably no more
than 10, and although pretty was far too young for my taste.  (On the other
hand, if I were awarded a scholarship he would be the perfect age in my
final year.)  No, my eyes were drawn to two boys standing next to each
other, no more than thirty feet from me.  They could not have been more
different: one blond with blue eyes, the other with jet black hair and, as
far as I could see in the candle-light, brown eyes.  Both looked to be
around the almost perfect age of 13, and both, when not concentrating on
their singing, occasionally relaxed into soft smiles.  I breathed a silent
thanks to wicked Mr Bell and settled down to 40 minutes or so of gazing at
two beautiful boys.

I knew it would be impossible to make contact with either of them, but that
didn't stop me from imagining what might happen if Aladdin's genie were to
turn up out of the blue.  An hour spent with either of them would have been
an hour spent in Paradise - always assuming that the boys were as keen on
what the genie and I had in mind.  It seemed a fair bet, I felt.

I had not expected to be disappointed when the service was over, and as the
choir processed out I did my best to smile at the two boys, but I doubt if
either of them noticed.

At a tactful few minutes after 7 I presented myself in the Combination Room
where I was welcomed by the junior Fellow.  It seemed that I was one of
four candidates dining as High Table's guests that evening.  A glass of
sherry was put in my hand and I was wheeled round to be introduced to the
two Fellows between whom I would be sitting.  I was a bit surprised that
neither of them had any connection with the Maths faculty, but that the
policy was to put candidates among people from different disciplines.  I
was to sit between the Chaplain and someone in the Engineering department.
The Chaplain was pleased that he recognised me as a member of his
congregation, and invited me to come to Evensong again each evening.  I
expressed appreciation of the choir, and learned (to my delight on so many
levels) that the service was sung every day.  I spent some minutes praising
the choir, and asking the sort of intelligent questions that a lover of
church music might ask.  I think he was persuaded of my spiritual bona
fides.

I turned to the man on the other side who had evidently been given some
background on me - or at least on the extent of my landholdings.  I was
glad that Wilbye and I had had that meeting in the summer.  I was asked
about the fertility of the land.  "Your nearest holdings are only 20 miles
or so from here.  Have you found you have needed to change the crop with
the changes in the climate?"  I said that as I had inherited when I was 13
I had left all such matters to the Steward, and that in the last year or so
I had taken a greater interest, but I wasn't aware we'd changed.  "Should I
be changing?  It's mainly soft fruit locally, with potatoes in
Lincolnshire."  It appeared that my interlocutor's professional interest
was in soil mechanics and drainage, and that in the low-lying fen country
that was a permanent problem.  "Cambridge isn't any old town with a bridge
over the Cam," he explained, "historically it was the furthest downstream
bridge.  Below it was all marshy until 300-odd years ago when they began to
channel the water.  In your shoes I'd be thinking it might become marshy
again one day."  I looked at him, choirboys forgotten.  "One day?  Is that
in 10 years or 300?"  He shrugged.  "Your guess is as good as mine -
literally.  Sea levels are rising and will go on rising at an accelerating
rate.  Your Lincolnshire land may be fertile for 300 years, but I don't
think it likely.  Say 100.  But that could look very silly if there's a
really bad storm.  If we had a repeat of 1953 your land could be
contaminated with salt next winter."

I wasn't enjoying this.  "I have to take an exam tomorrow and this isn't
conducive of a relaxed frame of mind."  He chuckled, "I think you'll be all
right for a day or two.  But don't forget what I've said.  We're in
uncharted territory and things can change very quickly."  They were
prophetic words.

I turned back to the Chaplain, keen to get away from visions of acres of
spuds disappearing under the waves.  I asked him about the choir and he,
simple soul, thought he had a budding tenor teeing himself up for the
following autumn.  I learned that there was a choir school, that around 10%
of the boys at the school were in the choir, with another 10% or so as
probationers, that the Fisher Choir was giving a recital in two days' time
and that, if I were not tearing myself away once the final exam was over,
he would be happy to give me a complimentary ticket. I expressed thanks -
genuine thanks I made no effort to conceal.  "They're doing the Mozart
Requiem.  The College is having a reception for them and the orchestra
afterwards - you'd be very welcome to come along to that too."  I said that
I would be delighted.

Concentrate on the bloody exam, Dab, that's why you're here, I told myself.
Flooded fields and beautiful boys are a distraction.

You don't want to hear about the exam, nor about Evensong the following
evening, where I made sure I sat in the same seat looking enthralled.  It
would be up to Blondie and his pal to decide (assuming they even noticed)
whether it was devotion to things spiritual or to things carnal.  The two
dinners eaten among undergraduates were interesting, not least because the
food seemed to be as good as had been served at High Table.  I was even
keener to be awarded a scholarship.

The Mozart Requiem was completely new to me as I'd never encountered
classical music before.  I didn't appreciate just how I could be lifted up
and carried along by music of this kind - all we ever listened to at school
was whatever was then fashionable, none of it being remotely memorable.
Loud, rhythmical, but indistinguishable from what was being played a year
earlier.  But Mozart got to me.

A glass of champagne was pressed into my hand as I joined the reception in
a room with about 200 people in it.  The orchestra were easily identified
as the only people there in black tie.  Most of the others were Fisher
people, I decided, with a few from the upper reaches of Cambridge society,
no doubt.  There was no sign of any of the choir - men or boys.  It seemed
that a glass of champagne was all I was going to enjoy.  I circulated and
chatted to a few people, hoping that my glass would be refilled.  Someone
tapped a gong and we all fell silent.  "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Fisher
College choir," said a voice, and there they were.  The boys led the way
in, two by two as they had in Chapel, with the men behind.  Applause broke
out.  When they were all in waiters handed champagne to the men and glasses
of something else to the boys.  They all then spread to different parts of
the room, instructed no doubt to mingle, the better to assist with the
inevitable fund-raising speech which would follow after a few minutes.  I
watched my two aim for about 15 feet to my right, but noticed that they
were spending just a short time with each person ... and they were coming
my way.

"We saw you in Chapel," said Blondie.  "Yes," said his pal, "and you were
watching.  You're not an undergraduate though, are you?"  I said that I was
here for the scholarship exams, and that I had enjoyed the concert
immensely.  "Oh that," said Blondie, "it was OK.  But we're interested in
what you thought of Chapel."  I had about three seconds to think of
something which would take advantage of the opening I thought might lie
before me, but which would allow a change of direction if I were wrong.  "I
liked what I heard," I said quietly, "but I liked what I saw even more."
"Told you," said Blondie to his pal, and turning to me added, "you can
always tell the ones who fancy us, because they never take their eyes of us
even when we're not singing."  It was true.  During prayers my eyes had
remained open and my head unbowed.  Good choirboys naturally pray with
their eyes closed, for they are being watched by their teachers, but wicked
good choirboys occasionally open their eyes without warning to see who is
still looking at them.

"Guilty as charged, gentlemen," I said quietly, and it was then that the
Master tapped his glass and started to make his pitch.  Blondie tugged my
sleeve and hinted that we might move towards the back of the room.  "We
don't have any money and I don't suppose you do either, so his words are
wasted on us."  The three of us slid unobtrusively into a corner where
champagne was still available.  This was clearly routine as far as they
were concerned, because the waiter gave each of them a fruit juice glass
with champagne in it, smiling at me as he filled mine.  I was glad I didn't
have an exam the next morning.

"He'll speak for 20 minutes," said Blondie, "so we've got 15 at least."  He
and his pal drained their bubbly, forcing me to do the same, and they left
through a service door behind a screen.  I followed, having no clue where
we might end up.  Once outside the freezing cold hit us.  "Where's your
room?" asked the pal.  "Follow me," I said, adding over my shoulder, "do
you always hunt in pairs?"

The gas fire had remained lit throughout the day, so my room was warm when
the three of us reached it less than a minute later.  "I'm Dab," I said,
"and you are?"  "Gordon," said Blondie, and "Edward," said his pal.  "Well,
Gordon and Edward, we have ten minutes before we have to sneak back.  What
are your intentions with me?"  "There isn't time for anything too
exciting," said Edward, "but we guess that you'd like to suck our cocks."
"And we'll suck yours of course, Dab.  What is Dab short for?"  "No time
for such things," I said, starting to undress.  Within half a minute three
naked males, all hard and ready for action, graced my room.  "Onto the
bed," I murmured.

It was immediately clear that Gordon and Edward were no strangers to what
we were about to do.  They knelt on either side of me, cocks strategically
placed in front of my face: one to the right and one to the left.  Neither
had more than about 4 inches, and not a hair in sight.  Edward leant
forward.  "Go on, Dab, it's all yours."  I obliged the child, my lips
pursed and forming a tube through which I sucked him in.  "Oh wow! G,
you'll love this," he moaned.  George, seeing that I was in no position to
ask any questions, and wishing to furnish me with information he felt I
might desire, said, "he can spunk now, both of us can."  My cup, already
full, was in grave danger of running over.  I put my hands on Edward's arse
cheeks - words are not necessary - and drew as much of him into my mouth as
I could.  My hands moved to his balls - small hard nuts of promise, even as
I fondled them busy preparing to flood my mouth with juvenile joy.  I felt
hands on my cock - George was testing the waters down there.  A finger
(mine) strayed into an arse cleft (Edward's) where, to its satisfaction,
entry was not denied.  Edward's arse was greased!  My finger went in - hard
- and Edward grunted and came - hard.  Three jets, his arse clenching on my
finger with each spurt.  "Oh Christ," he sighed as the orgasm passed and
his cock, flaccid almost immediately, slipped from my mouth. "Mine now,"
said George, forcing my head round to where his cock demanded attention.  I
opened my mouth at the same moment that I felt a warm mouth taking my cock.
"Mmm, Edward, that's good," I murmured, temporarily neglecting George's hot
little 4 inches.

All too soon George had anointed my tonsils and, as Edward had done,
slipped out.  Edward was still licking and sucking, and now George joined
him.  I lay back and spread my legs, allowing one angel to suck my cock and
the other to fondle my balls.  Their co-operative effort led me quickly to
where all three of us wanted to be..  "Soon," I groaned, hoping that such a
warning would be ignored.  I had underestimated these two, for Edward did
indeed remove his mouth.  Both boys then put their open mouths almost
together with my cock in the gap.  A hand helped me over the finishing line
and a liberal amount of spunk was soon in various mouths and running down
the side of my cock (where it did not remain long).

I was pleased to see that George and Edward maintained the fine Christian
tradition of sharing a kiss of peace.

Two minutes later we were all clothed again, and apart from a slight flush
on four unblemished cheeks there was no visible evidence that anything had
happened.  "I hope you get a schol," said George, "cos we're both going to
be in the choir next year.  You're fun, Dab.  You can fuck us when you come
up."  How do you thank such generosity?  All I could think of, as we walked
quickly back to the reception, was to tell them that I could hardly wait.
I did give then both my zip number though.

The Master was still at it when we slipped back in.

*****

Term ended ten days later.  Edward had zipped me two days after our little
session to say that he and George had "really loved it.  We hope you come
to Fisher next year".  I zipped back saying I'd loved it too, and asked
where they lived.  Foolish of me, I know.  Edward zipped back that he lived
in London and George in the wilds of Yorkshire, so any out-of-Fisher
assignations were out of the question.  Still, October 2037 was only ten
months away.

I ought to finish the Fisher part of the story before going back to home,
and California, so let me jump forward a few weeks.  Just before New Year a
letter arrived from the Senior Tutor of Fisher congratulating me, and
offering me a Minor Scholarship to start the following October.  I was
asked to come to the College during February for an interview, but it was
made clear that this was a formality, and my scholarship was definite.  I
replied thanking him and saying that I would be happy to attend at whatever
date they suggested.  Edward and George would doubtless be pleased, though
I didn't zip to tell them.  Not until I had a definite date.

*****

But before any of that there was Christmas, and before that being home with
Billy and Jack.  They were eager to hear about Cambridge, and Jack was
disbelieving about my fun with the choir.  "Two of them seduced you!"  I
explained that it wasn't exactly seduction, more a meeting of minds.  "And
you sucked them off in your room!"  I agreed, adding that they had
specifically invited me to fuck them next October.  Jack turned to Billy.
"Don't you mind, Billy?"  "Of course not, Jack.  You've heard him often
enough - no coercion and no secrets.  Why would I mind?  He doesn't mind if
I fuck you when he's away at school."  It's quite hard to tell when someone
as black as Jack is blushing, but I'm fairly certain he was blushing then.
I leant close to him and whispered.  "He's bloody good, isn't he?"  And
Jack - sweet lovely vulnerable Jack - nodded happily.  "Well then," I said.

One morning I asked Wilbye to see me with maps of our holdings.  I told him
what the engineering man had said, and asked what he thought.  "We're
several miles inland, but I suppose if sea level rises anything could
happen.  How serious is it, do you think?"  I said I didn't think we should
lose sleep over it, but we ought to begin to think about selling and
investing in land somewhere else at a higher level.  "I'll look into that
immediately, your Lordship."

It was time to see what had happened in California - they can't have
remained there much longer if they came home in 1853.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

My Father and I worked assiduously throughout 1852 and 1853.  We spent much
time with Seth in the Winter of 1852, and he was delighted to have two
extra playmates with nothing better to do than satisfy his every whim.  I'm
sure he gave his nurse a terrible time when March came and it was time for
us to go back up into the hills.  1853 was a wearisome year as the gold was
harder to get than it had been in the early times.  The easy metal had been
won, and my Father and I decided in the Summer that we would cease mining
and take ship back to England.  Thus, one day in August we went down to San
Francisco to the bank where our money and the money that Jacob had given us
was stored.  The bank agent advised us strongly not to travel with bullion,
taking only the minimum amount we would need for our journey.  It seemed
that money could be sent somehow by electric cable to a bank in England,
and he arranged for this to happen.  Neither my Father nor I knew how this
could be, but we were assured that it was an everyday matter for a bank.

We booked a passage on a ship for the three of us as we had no wish to
submit little Seth to the rigours of a journey overland to New York.  The
ship would not take any longer and while it might be hazardous at least we
should not have to make any great effort on the journey.  We felt we had
earned a few weeks of ease, and the idea of spending our days with Seth was
pleasing.  In order that he would be used to my caring for his needs we
spent a month with him in Barbary before we set off on our voyage.  As I
have said, it was sometimes very rough, but having to look after a lively
lad of 3 years kept my Father and me from feeling unwell.

The ship came at last to Liverpool.  It was five years since we last set
foot there.  We passed but one night there before taking a coach to Stoke.
There we hired a carriage to bear us the 17 miles to Uttoxeter where we
arrived three days before Christmas.  Seth was excited as we entered the
town.  "This is your new home, Seth," I whispered, "here you will see all
of your family."  Tired though he was with all the bumping of the coach,
his eyes lit up.  "Will they love me like you and Grampa do, Daddy?"  My
Father smiled, as much at the moisture in my eyes as at Seth's question.

===============================================================================
The fun continues in Chapter 39 as Amos and Joel settle down to a new life
as wealthy men, and Christmas arrives.

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