Date: Tue, 3 Mar 2020 08:42:21 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Last of the Line Chapter 43 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 43 Armed with Bell's instruction I went to see Fagan after Chapel the next morning. "Mr Bell has sent me to ask that you should instruct me in English church music. I have to go up to Fisher for an interview next month." Fagan smiled. "And are you up for a choral scholarship? Unlikely, I would think, since you've never been in the choir here." I explained that I had been awarded a Maths scholarship. His smile widened. "I think I detect my colleague's drift. Very well. What did he actually say?" "That I should ask you to give me an hour a day instructing me - I think these were his words - in an appreciation of English church music." "And I assume your present knowledge is zero and that you will expect to be able to conduct an informed conversation on the subject in less than a month's time." I grinned. "I fear so, Sir." "Present yourself to me in my room at 4.30 each afternoon, starting today. If you have other commitments it's up to you to get out of them." "Thank you, Sir," and I turned to go. "I have no doubt that our earlier acquaintance is not unconnected with the business in hand, but fear not - my interest, like yours, I infer - is for trebles, not for basses like yourself." On this occasion I was well outside his door before the red tide engulfed me. So Bell knew I fancied 13-year olds and Fagan knew, and knew that Bell knew. I shook my head. I had been able to enjoy fucking while I was a Pup myself, and now that I had a Pup of my own no-one seemed to be alarmed (the contrary now seemed to be more likely). Stop worrying, Dab, I told myself, just get on with life. Fuck who you can when you can, provided only that he's as up for it as you are. I had a shorter session than usual with Solly that afternoon. He usually appeared at around 4, whatever games he had been down for being over - and Solly showered (far more important) - by then. As darkness fell the Pups began to gather, or so it might have seemed. Anyway, there he was in my Den, all keen and sparky. "I've bad news, Solly," I said, "we've only got 15 minutes today. For the next month you're going to have to come here earlier as I will have to go at quarter past four." Time being short none of it was wasted. We were out of our clothes and in bed in well under a minute, and I was in him in well under a minute after that. "Make it one of your fast and furious specials, Dab," he whispered. Naturally I complied. I gave him ten minutes of being hammered - his face showing increasing delight as the heat inside his arse built up - and came deep inside him only a minute or so after his cock had spewed his contribution to the afternoon's entertainment high up on his chest. I pulled out sooner than either of us wished. "Sorry, Solly, gotta go." It was the first time that neither of us had dealt with the other's spunk. I wondered whether Solly's arse-fragrance would be noticeable to Fagan. Instruction from Fagan was a lot more interesting than I had expected, and by the end of the third week I reckoned I could keep my end up in anything I was likely to be faced with. Fagan's interests - the musical ones, that is - were very much the earliest and the most recent parts of the curriculum Bell had set out. He was very disparaging about the Victorian era - "all those earnestly dreary hymns, full of words you boys bellow without the faintest idea of what they mean". I had queried this, and had instantly been invited to explain what 'consubstantial, co-eternal' meant. I saw his point. "And the tunes - so lumpy and ordinary." But Tallis and his contemporaries, and anything written since about 1950 were joys to him. Each afternoon in the fourth week he put something on his musicplayer and made me listen. Then he made me talk about it for 10 minutes. Then we listened again and he picked out what he thought I should have talked about - it was fascinating. I realised what I was missing. "You'll do," he said on the last Friday afternoon, "actually you'll do very well. I've given you a hard time, Cunliffe, but you've learned a great deal. Just think what a loss you will be to the musical world with your foolish pursuit of mathematics." "Foolish?" "Yes, dear boy. Music is full of new things every day - new music, new interpretations. Your mathematics is all known already. Pythagoras today is the same as he was a thousand years ago." I knew that the Fisher dons might have expected me to refute, or better to rebut, such a heresy, but I couldn't think quickly enough. I think Fagan was slightly disappointed that I let him get away with it. I thanked him. "I'm off to Cambridge on Tuesday." "In that case, Cunliffe, you have ample time to let me have 1500 words by evening Chapel on Sunday about why my argument about Pythagoras is nonsense." I grinned: he had caught me. "Yes, Sir, I shall enjoy thinking about it." "And I, my dear boy, shall enjoy, as I'm sure you will also, thinking about what you might find when you get to Fisher on Tuesday." (Fisher had written to me a few days after term had started inviting me to interview on 25 February - a Wednesday - and informing me that accommodation was available for two nights, from Tuesday 24. I zipped Edward to suggest that he and Gordon should be aware of possible meeting times. A zip came back less than an hour later. "Yum yum" it said.) ***** You mustn't think that nothing happened during those four weeks apart from my daily get-togethers with Solly and Fagan. Bell was setting me mathematical problems to think about, and twice a week he and I and another scholarship boy (Lightfoot: he was headed for Balliol) had a three-hour session where some of the things we would encounter as undergraduates were explained. The most interesting thing, however, was that one of the other Housemasters invited ten of us to dinner one evening a week. Lightfoot and I were there as were eight others, all aiming for Oxford or Cambridge, but none of them mathematicians. It turned out that this was standard practice in the spring term - the idea being that adult conversation would be enjoyed. The only others I knew apart from Lightfoot were Piers Cavendish and Dugald MacDonald. Every Saturday evening the ten of us would gather to be entertained by Jenson and his wife. With the benefit of old age I wonder what Mrs Jenson made of a bunch of adolescents trying to shine every Saturday night, but if she was bored she showed no sign of it. Indeed it was she who took the conversational lead each week, letting an interesting subject out of its box to be chased round the table. One week it was politics, one week feminism, one week the arts - there was always something new and challenging. As we walked back after each evening Piers, Dugald and I tried to work out what we thought about each issue, and I came to realise that those undergraduate-like sessions were just as important in the growing-up process as the table talk chez Jenson. I wrote my 1500 words for Fagan, a task I thoroughly enjoyed. ***** But you, like me, are keen to get to Cambridge and the pleasures to be enjoyed in Fisher College. When I rolled up at the Porter's Lodge that Tuesday afternoon there were three envelopes waiting for me. I got my room key and found my room - the gas fire doing its necessary work already - and settled down to read. The Master and Fellows would be delighted to entertain me, as they had before, to pre-dinner drinks and to have me dine with them at High Table on both nights I would be in Cambridge. No great surprise there. I wondered whether there would be other scholarship candidates as well, but there was no indication in the letter. The second letter invited me to present myself for interview at 9.30 the following morning "followed by luncheon". It would be some interview, I thought, if it was really going to run into lunch. The third letter was brief in the extreme. "See you at Evensong" It did, however, carry a message of great importance, for after "See you at Evensong" the writer - or writers - had added "G & E xx". It was now approaching 5, and darkness wasn't far away. February had only a few days to go. As an old hand I knew exactly where to sit in Chapel. I hoped that the choir placings would be the same, and was relieved to find that when they processed in my two angel delights were where they had been in December: about 30 feet from my lust-filled eyes. The pair of them showed great restraint, paying no attention to me until the beginning of the second hymn. Four eyes bored into mine and tiny flickers of grins could be seen. "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord" has never failed to make me smile ever since. The rest of the service passed me by, for I had eyes only for the choir. Or, to be truthful, half of the choir. My two, as I was already thinking of them, were not the only pretty boys there, but they were certainly the most attractive. were boys of 8 - or whenever the school took them into the choir - so full of musical potential and so sexy that the wicked choirmaster had such a rich bounty from which to make his harvest? Perhaps one day I would find out. I woke from my contemplation of things to come to hear the Dean pronouncing his hope that blessings would be with me, now and always. Amen to that, I thought, reckoning that earthly blessings would soon be showered on me - and mine on - or in - their deliverers. As the choir filed out a quick flick of Edward's eyes indicated that I should wait at the West Door. Four minutes later the rest of the congregation had disappeared - it was freezing - and I was the only one still outside. Edward came running up. "God! it's enough to freeze your balls. Hello Dab. You got our note?" I smiled, as eager as he was to get down to business. It was about ten to seven and I was due to present myself a tactful few minutes after 7 o'clock to be put through my paces. It took all of 20 seconds to tell Edward all this. "Bugger!" he said, "we were looking forward to at least an hour." I told him that my time was filled up until early the next afternoon. He brightened up, "you're here tomorrow night, Dab?" I nodded. Wednesday, I was told, was a half day and there were no activities for them between 3 o'clock (the end of choir practice) and Evensong at just before 6. "Can you come to my rooms, the two of you?" Edward nodded, "yes, I can't see why not. What staircase are you on?" "D, D9." "Oh, that's easy. We're up there regularly." "Oh? Who's up there then, Edward?" He chuckled. "Nothing improper, Dab. One of the Fellows has rooms there - he doesn't live in - and he coaches the choir now and again. Two choirboys going into D will be unremarkable. Trust me." "OK, Edward, if you and Gordon van keep all the spunk you have where it is now I'll do the same, and we'll let all the billions of sperms out to play at 3 tomorrow." It was dark and there was no-one in sight, so Edward - bold Edward - stretched up and sealed our bargain with a quick kiss before darting off. It was five past seven and sherry beckoned. Fascinating though drinks and Dinner were they are not the reason you are here. They sat me between two different Fellows this time, and there was one other scholarship candidate there. He and I were briefly introduced, but we were kept apart once we sat down. I had a Maths man on one side of me and the Director of Choir on the other. The interview had evidently begun. The Maths man explained that he would have no part in the formal session the next morning - "we're very happy with your performance in December. But in the next 90 minutes you and I are going to talk seriously about where you want to go. That's when Colin isn't talking about his choir." Colin, listening, drily pointed out that his choir was of interest to me. "This man attends Evensong, Matthew, which is more than you do." "Ah, but does he attend for the greater glory of God - that's what you say, isn't it? - or for more earthly reasons?" Both of them looked at me. Smile enigmatically, Dab, it's the only thing you can do. One of Fagan's thoughts came to my rescue. I turned to Colin, "You're a co-educational College, but the choir has only trebles. Does the soprano sound not work for you?" Matthew hooted with laughter. "That's got you, Colin," and he said quietly to me "if you weren't briefed you score highly. That's his hobby horse." I assured him that there had been no briefing, merely a good grounding in church music. Thank you, Fagan, I thought. After 10 minutes Matthew jumped in. "I think the man on your other side needs the benefit of converse with you, Colin." Colin took the hint and turned his attention elsewhere. I was then subjected to a grilling about what areas of the maths universe I found most attractive, and I was glad that Bell had opened a window into what lay beyond the narrow confines of the school syllabus. Matthew asked pointed questions, and I found I had to think carefully before answering. By the time we adjourned to the Combination Room for dessert and coffee I was feeling the strain. He held me back briefly. "Well done," he said, "I know more about you now, and I am happy that you will put your scholarship to good use. I will be your Director of Studies, and we'll see a lot of each other. Now don't stay in there more than 20 minutes. You have a big day tomorrow. Don't mess it up by drinking in there," and with that he strode off. I went in. "Ah, Cunliffe, come and sit by me." This was the President - a distinguished economist about whom Bell had briefed me. "Very grand, Cunliffe, but no fool. If he's done his homework he'll know about you." I sat beside the President, who had the other candidate already on his other side. Luckily he turned to me first. If dessert was going to be anything like dinner I would have my 10 minutes before he turned to the other guy. That way I could make a quiet exit as Matthew had recommended. "You have land near here, do you not?" I told him where our East Anglian holdings were. "Hm. My engineering colleague thinks you'll be under water one day." I said that I had talked to him in December, and on hearing his view I'd instructed my Steward to look into things. "And?" Another bloody grilling, I thought. "He's made preliminary enquiries, and he's due to report to me in a month or two. At present we think the risk, though real, isn't imminent." "And what does that lead you to do, Cunliffe - I may call you that?" I paused. Dunstable, Wilbye and I hadn't really talked about it. "I would want to take professional advice once my Steward has reported. Maybe your engineering colleague would act for me?" The President chuckled - not a sound readily observed to be emanating from an economist - and called over to the other side of the fire. "Our new scholar has gold to put in your pocket, Simon." Simon raised his glass to me and I responded (it was a very nice pudding wine). The President, a joke at his colleague's expense now safely under his belt, now turned to the other guy and I felt it acceptable to go to the table to pick up a piece of fruit. I went to sit beside Simon. "He likes to wind us up," he said softly, "but I do the kind of work you need, so I suggest we talk professionally in a few months, when your people have come up with a plan." "I'm really grateful - do I call you Simon?" He nodded. "We're all Simon, or Matthew, apart from the President. You call him President." "I'll get my Steward Dunstable to liaise with you then." He nodded. "Now bugger off. You have a big day tomorrow." The informality of it all was confusing. ***** By three the next afternoon I felt as though I'd run an intellectual marathon. The Chaplain and the Director of Music had put Fagan through a marathon too, although it was my brain through which he was tested. I managed to bring in the consubstantial co-eternal thing, passing it off as mine own. Who were my three favourite composers, I was asked. "It's not like favourite colours," I said, "any 6-year-old knows what his favourite colours are. Our moods vary. When I'm sad do I want music which makes me sadder, or music which cheers me up? Sometimes one, sometimes the other. When I'm elated anything in D will make me unstoppable." Colin jumped. "Do you have perfect pitch?" "I've no idea. Should I?" Matters took a different turn then. After a few minutes when Colin (who evidently had perfect pitch) tested me and found such an attribute wholly absent in me he started to wonder what it was about D - which he'd established I couldn't recognise - elated me nonetheless. "Fascinating," he said, "but you're no use to me in the choir. Pity. Still, he turns up," he said to his ecclesiastical colleague. This sounded alarming. At some point between now and next October, I decided, I was going to have to have a spiritual experience which would turn me in a non-Anglican direction. My devotions in that area had brought angels to my door and shortly to my bed. I doubted that my continued presence in Chapel would be necessary to sustain their interest. At a few minutes before 1 o'clock we adjourned for 'luncheon'. And at 2.40 I was finally released. "Thank you, Mr Cunliffe, you'll join us in the Combination Room again, I trust? You won't be on parade then, you'll be pleased to know. We're confident you can hold a knife and fork correctly." And with a brief smile I was dismissed. I had four hours of ecstasy to look forward to, and for the first three none of the participants would have any clothes on. ***** There was a gentle tap on the door of D9 - was that why D did it for me? surely not - at a few minutes after three. I opened it and Edward and Gordon came in. "No-one saw us." "Can you stay until Evensong?" Both of them nodded happily. "Good. I'd like to fuck you both. Are you up for that/?" Both of them nodded happily. "We hoped you'd say that," said Gordon, "we love being fucked, and your cock looked exciting." "We get fucked quite a lot," explained Edward, but a new cock's always a thrill. I asked if they ever fucked anyone. "Only each other." "Well, let's get on with it," I said, starting to undress. In no time all three of us were naked - thank you, gas fire - and three erect cocks were on display. "I'll need an hour between fucking one you and fucking the other," I said, "but there's all kinds of things we can do while I'm getting my strength back." "We know," said Edward, "and we agreed that this time I'd go first. Next time Gordon goes first - that's if there is a next time." He looked uncertain. "Why wouldn't there be?" "If one of our voices breaks he won't be in the choir and he won't be able to be in College when we like." "Your voices aren't about to break, surely. How old are you anyway?" "I was 12 last September," said Edward; "and I'm 13 in May," added Gordon." Two 12-year-olds! And with luck they would be trebles for at least another 18 months. "Let's not worry too much then. Come on, Gordon - how do you like it?" Gordon looked perplexed - until that moment choice of how he liked it hadn't been an issue. He knelt on my bed, his head down and his arse ready. "Do you always get fucked like that?" Gordon said nothing but Edward said they didn't know there was any other way. "In that case, gentlemen, prepare for your horizons to be stretched as well as your pretty little arses." Gordon giggled. "I like it with Dab, Edward, I told you it'd be fun." From the look on his face Edward had never been in any doubt that 'it' would have been fun with me. I explained about other positions, making Gordon demonstrate and pointing out the advantages and drawbacks of each. "I want the one where you get in deepest," said Gordon, "which one's that?" It was a toss-up between where I placed myself. He would be on his back and I could either fuck him face-to-face, or I could squat over him and lower myself. It took about two seconds to decide that while the latter method worked like a charm with Billy and Jack, the former would - initially at least - be more fun with a 12-year-old I hadn't fucked before. "On your back, Gordon, and grab hold of your knees. Now get your knees as near your ears as you can." Edward was on the bed, inches away from his friend. "Christ, Gordon, I can see right up your arse. It's wide open." This was nonsense, but it was certainly gently welcoming. I knelt and blew gently. His arse lips twitched. "I hope you're taking notes, Edward," I whispered. He grinned and blew me a kiss. Lips followed: more twitching; tongue ... finger ... second finger (following a demand for "more") ... both fingers in all the way ... scrotum, hairless, angel-smooth, in mouth ... balls gently moving ... cock gently leaking precum, a spider-trail from its tip to his belly ... "oh God, Dab, do me" ... a request ignored for the moment while fingers played gently stretching him ... a good big drop of precum ... a raised eyebrow look from Edward, his eyes looking hungrily at the feast growing on Gordon's belly ... a nod from me - "suck him" ... fingers scrabbling where a prostate might be growing ... arched back ... "aaah!" ... Edward's mouth blessed ... Edward swallows ... fingers out ... "oh!" ... cock in hard, all the way ... "oooh!" ... I last less than a minute ... I pump six shots deep into this child, his eyes wide open and locked on mine ... "oh Jesus, Ed, you'll never want it on all fours again ... I slip out ... so does a gallon of Cunliffe's finest ... Edward leaps to the rescue ("can't have spunk on your bed, Dab") and when it's all gone he turns to my cock, and when it's all clean he turns to Gordon's cock to finish his earlier task. "Well, Dab, what do we do for an hour?" =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 44 as it's Edward's turn - once an interesting hour had passed. Drop me a line at badboi666@btinternet.com - that is after you've dropped nifty a few quid. ===============================================================================