Date: Fri, 1 May 2020 08:03:55 +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. 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. It has been his habit in all his stories published here to be two or three chapters ahead of publication. If he gets a nasty cough and a temperature he will post all outstanding chapters together with 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. A bit like Edwin Dro 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 57 At dinner that evening I told Jack that Seth had had his first experience of being deep-throated in a boy brothel in Norwich when he was 31. "31! What kept him?" "I think he hadn't come across anyone who could do it before, but he waxes very lyrical about it. By that time his boyfriend John was 20, and reading between the lines I think he'll persuade John - who was a boy in a brothel when he was 14, remember, to acquire a new skill. He was already fisting and into piss by then, so I think he might be up for it." Jack told me to let him know of any developments. "When are we going to get to read all this stuff, Dab?" he asked. I explained that the papers were gathered in sections. "The first one - the one I'm reading - is well over half the whole lot. It started over 200 years ago and Seth's up to 1882. I think I'm about to discover the event in Bayswater when he does whatever it is he does to get him the earldom years after." "Don't keep us in the dark then, my lord," said Billy, "I need to know why I get to fuck the nobility." They both fucked the nobility that night, like every other night. The nobility returned the favour as often as he could. Jack reminded me how good he was at the newly-discovered experience Seth had had in Norwich. Next morning the three of us were in the Library. It was still pissing hard outside and the log fire had three avid readers round it. Jack was still with the Glasses and Billy was making steady progress where I had foundered. I returned to Seth. Get on with it Seth, I thought. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ After Walter had gone that morning, tactfully dressing and leaving me to compose myself after a busy night's tumbling, I rose and washed. When I left the little room to go downstairs I encountered a slim young man of some 17 or 18 years leaving another room. He was dressed for the street, so I assumed he was another patron, not one of the house whores. It was foolish to pretend that neither of us could notice the other, so I greeted him with a quiet 'good morning' and went before him down the stairs. He made no reply, but seemed very alarmed that he had been observed. At the time I thought nothing of it, for a lad of that age and inexperience might well feel shame leaving a brothel, particularly one of the type we had been in. ***** I first visited the Bayswater house in 1882, some four months after my visit to Norwich. In the next year my visits to London were only two or three times a year, and rarely lasting more than two days of business, but by 1884 I found business taking me there each month, and my pleasure was always taken in Bayswater, though I did not pass the night there. One of my London contacts had put me up for membership of his club, and I spent the night there. Naturally he had no notion of how I passed the evening hours, for I was very careful to keep business and pleasure isolated the one from the other. However an itch grew in me, and I resolved to have a week in London with ample opportunity to spend more time in the arms - and arses - of delightful boys in Bayswater. As I am keen to get to the crux of my story I shall pass over the first two evenings where I spent time with two boys: Stephen on the Monday and Gregory on the Tuesday. Each was 15 and each was, for the two hours I passed with him, delightful and erotically stimulating - but neither was (and here I confess to expressing myself more selfishly than I should) worth a second night. On the Wednesday I knocked as usual. "Gilead of Stoke." There was no reply. Although the Master in Stoke had warned me of this, it had never happened before, and I was in a dilemma. Should I leave, or should I knock again in case the doorward had been away from his post, attending to another patron perhaps? I decided to wait a few moments. A minute later I knocked again. "Gilead of Stoke." There was no reply, but the shutter was drawn softly across the grille. "Ah, it is you Seth. Wait one moment." This was strange. The door was opened and I went in. Roger, the doorward, beckoned me into his little room. "I should not admit you, Seth, for we have a special guest tonight, but he is not expected yet. If you see him you do not see him, if you understand my meaning." Evidently a well-known face was to appear. "I shall see nothing, Roger, but am I permitted to stay?" "Yes, but you are the last I shall be admitting. There are only two other patrons, so you are lucky!" I chose my boy for the evening (James, 16), paid my £4, and went with him to the bedroom where we enjoyed ourselves. When I left I sat on a settee to see whether this unknown person - whom I would not of course see - made an appearance. There was a gentleman on another settee dressed very finely - could it be he? If so, I did not know who he was, but his demeanour was not that of a patron: either one waiting for some man (or boy) to come to draw him away for an hour or two of pleasure, or one recently having spent, and thus looking tired. No, this fellow was alert and watchful. I was preparing to leave when a pretty youth of 18 or so came from one of the bedrooms with another man, a year or two older perhaps, very thin and pale. As I saw him I understood at once why I was not to see him. The other fellow - but 'fellow' is quite the wrong word, for he must have been an equerry, stood and, without saying a word he and the well-known patron left. It was the same young man I had encountered two years earlier in Norwich, and he was no ordinary young man. Naturally I made no indication that I recognized him, for the customary stiff bow would have not been welcome in such a place. I left quickly, but not before I saw a spark of recognition on the Prince's face. Had he remembered that 'good morning' from Norwich? I had business that day with my London lawyer with whom I had placed a tricky problem concerning a business relationship where I was sure we were being defrauded. It was a long morning while we discussed my evidence and what he - the lawyer, a man called Truscott - recommended to take the matter forward. The details are not important in this story (but suffice it to say that my suspicions were found to be correct and the guilty man was eventually forced to pay, and spent three years behind bars), but after, as I say, a hard morning Truscott invited me to take luncheon with him at his club. I agreed readily, for after a busy night and a tricky morning I was very hungry. Truscott and I talked a little more of business before he began to relax. "You are a substantial landholder, Seth, you and your father. You must be men of substance in Staffordshire. Have you not thought to take a place in Society?" I had no idea what he meant, and naturally he had no idea of our unorthodox domestic arrangements: he had never met Amos or Arthur. "You should become a magistrate, Seth. You have responsibilities to the ordinary people who live around you." I expressed a polite degree of interest, knowing that the alley up which he was seeking to lead me was a blind one. He talked about the duties of such a civic post, occupying several minutes while he did so. Then - a critical moment in my life, though I did not know it then - he leaned forward and spoke very quietly. "Magistrates have a part in cleansing Society of its ills, Seth. They and the constabulary have distasteful tasks to perform which are necessary. We lawyers have our part to play also, but - how shall I put it? - the police are the actors on stage while the magistrates and lawyers are not visible while the work is going on." I had no idea what he was talking about, but all became very clear very swiftly. "There are premises not a mile from here where disgusting practices are carried out - practices which are so vile that I shudder even to think about them. There are brothels in London, Seth, as there must be brothels in any large city, but here there is a brothel of a peculiarly foul kind -" (I was becoming alarmed, but I hoped that my rising colour - damn the Cunliffe red hair - would betoken a horror at the nature of what I was sure he was about to describe) "- where men, grown men, are serviced by other men." The pause was clearly meant to be filled by a comment from me. "How unnatural!" It seemed adequate, for he continued, drawing even closer. "Tonight there is to be a raid on these premises, and the constables will do their distasteful work apprehending the vile customers and the men (if that be the word) who ply their trade there." "And shall you be there to witness this?" "No, Seth, at eleven tonight I shall be in my bed beside Mrs Truscott. But at ten tomorrow morning in court I shall be doing my duty for the Queen." "Amen to that," I murmured, my mind in a terrible turmoil. Thank God that after disclosing the disgusting duties he (and the constabulary and magistrates) were obliged to perform he turned the conversation to more agreeable matters: matters of no relevance to my story. I thought deeply about what I should do. If Truscott was to be believed the raid was planned for 11 o'clock. As I intended to stay no longer than the usual two hours I decided that there was no risk if I presented myself at 8 o'clock, and that is what I did. "Gilead of Stoke." "Gomorrah." I chose Stephen again, and as I was waiting for him I formed a plan for what I would do before I left. The Master would have to be told so that the raid proved fruitless. I had little doubt that information had been laid to suggest that immoral behaviour was going on; I had equally little doubt that if a raid found nothing there would be a further raid in due course. What the Master did about that was his affair: my concern was only with that night. Stephen and I passed a busy two hours and I dressed and was ready to leave. I decided to say nothing to the boy - it were far better if the Master handled things himself. Downstairs I was horrified to see the equerry. The Prince must be busy, and if he were apprehended the scandal would be terrible, and might rock the throne. The raid was due to commence in less than 45 minutes. Did I tell the Master or the equerry? Seth, Seth, make your mind up: there is not time for a delay. I went and stood in front of the equerry. "May I speak urgently, Sir? I am not a newspaperman but a patron of this place, like His Highness." The equerry looked startled, but beckoned me to sit close. "What is it, man? Can you not see that my master is not here?" "Sir, there is to be a police raid on these premises at eleven tonight. You have to get him away, and yourself too." "How do you know?" I explained as briefly as I could about what Truscott had told me. "Jesus, man, if you are right ... God help us." "What room is he in? I am not afraid to go in and get him down here. Just get him away as soon as he appears." He hesitated: I could tell that neither prospect was comfortable: the Prince in a public scandal or the Prince being found by a commoner fucking some boy. "Quick, man," I said. "Room 9, be quick." I ran up the stairs and opened the door. Knocking would have been pointless, and would have wasted precious time. For all I knew the premises were already surrounded and escape without being recognised was impossible. I found the Prince on all fours being fucked by a man of around 30. "Quick, the two of you, there's a raid due any minute. Sire, your equerry is briefed, but for God's sake be quick." I closed the door and waited outside ready to interrupt if they - or the Prince, at least, had no emerged swiftly. It took him less than two minutes. "Who are you, Sir?" he said quietly, "you were in Norwich and now here. Are you a spy?" "No, Sir, I am, like you, a patron of these places. Your equerry will tell you, but make haste, please." I followed him down the stairs where the equerry was standing with their hats and cloaks. "Give me your card," said the equerry, "he'll wish to thank you when he realises what you have done." The Prince shook my hand. "You never saw me." "Of course not, Sir." One of the boys had witnessed the rapid departure and had dashed off to tell the Master. He came swiftly in just as the Prince and his equerry had left. "Master, I need to talk urgently and privately." Three minutes later I had explained everything and he was calling for all the unoccupied men and boys. "Go, Seth, let me deal with this. Thank you." It is rare, I think, for anyone to shake hands with royal blood and a brothel-keeper so soon one after the other. I left, walking away quickly. A church clock was striking the half hour. I could see no sign of police activity. I walked back to the club - only ten minutes away. When I got there I threw off my hat and coat and went out again, hatless and with no coat. I went back to Bayswater and walked casually on the opposite side of the road to the brothel. It was a minute before eleven. There were several constables moving towards the door and I slowed down to watch. A whistle blew, then all of them joined in. One knocked loudly, "open up!" The slide was drawn across and the door immediately unlatched, allowing several whistling policemen to rush in. I was not alone in observing all this, for several other passers-by were watching with interest. So engrossed was I in watching that I failed to notice a man standing very close to me. "Mr Cunliffe," he said softly, and I turned. No-one knew me: who could this be? "His Highness wished me to see whether you spoke the truth to him. I had no doubt, and nor shall he when I speak to him shortly. Thank you again," and he moved away as quietly as he had appeared. Where had he changed into less smart clothes, I wondered. It was almost midnight before the last of the constables left, but there was no-one arrested. ***** I must finish this part of my story by saying that a letter arrived in Uttoxeter several weeks later with the Prince of Wales crest on the envelope. It was very brief. "Dear Mr Cunliffe, "I will not set down the reason for this letter, but I must leave you in no doubt that my family owes you a considerable debt for the action you took lately. My son has assured me that he will put his indiscretion behind him. I must ask you to forget the entire episode, and I am sure that, as a gentleman, you will already have done so. "I am, sir, in your debt, as is my son. Please do not reply to this letter. "Edward" Nineteen years later another letter arrived. "His Majesty wishes to confer an Earldom on you for Services rendered to His Majesty. His Majesty hopes you will accept, and that the precise nature of the Service will remain between you and His Majesty. Please signify your willingness to accept, and advise me of the Title by which you expect to be known. "We have not met for nineteen years, sir, but I trust you are well and prosperous. "George Blake, Equerry to His Majesty King Edward VII" I wrote back the same day, expressing my heartfelt thanks, and saying that I wished to be styled as the Earl of Inchkeith. When the Prince had died only a few years after our brief encounter I debated with myself whether I should write to the Prince of Wales offering my condolences, but I remembered his request that I should forget the whole affair, and so I decided not to. I had the opportunity to offer my condolences in person later, as you shall learn: indeed I had two such opportunities, and eventually took the second as it was private. But, as I fear I am in the habit of doing, I have leaped too far ahead in wishing to complete the events which had been put in train that fateful night in Bayswater. I must return to 1884 and a wholly unexpected, and quite delightful change in my life. But first, a dark and terrible period must be written of. By the end of November 1884 our household consisted of Amos, an invalid in body still some months short of his 50th birthday, Arthur 47, and myself on the verge of my 34th birthday. John, now my personal servant, was more and more taking some estate work with me and - we hoped - beginning to travel to the farms with me in 1885. If he showed an aptitude for such matters Amos and I planned to see whether, in perhaps five years' time, he might be offered a similar position to Arthur. Henry, by then 23, was still the second footman, but it was no secret that he had formed an attachment to one of the older servants. The household was happy apart from poor Amos. Although he had come to terms with being - as he put it - 'a burden to you all' he had days when his anger at being no longer able to do all the things that he had been accustomed to doing was very vexing to him. He was convinced on the days when he was burdened with depression that he would not live much longer - in fact he would live long enough to see the letter ennobling me and indeed to see a photograph of me in my robes, for he did not die until 1905, being then almost 70. His last illness was mercifully not prolonged, although it was painful to see him waste away. Arthur and I were always with him (as was a kindly nurse who gave him draughts of morphine to ease his way). In the last few days he seemed to go back to California, and he spent several hours weeping pitifully over Jacob. Arthur and I had not known of Jacob's story until then, and although we knew we should be strong to support Amos we found ourselves weeping also. "Did we do right?" he kept saying, "could we not have saved him?" My Father, Amos Cunliffe, died on 17 February 1905. He is buried alongside his father Joel in the family vault on the Estate. Beside them both is my dear wife - my Countess, the mother of my precious son James - and beside her I shall myself be laid to rest when my time has come. But, as I have so often done, I have run ahead of myself. Mary is in her grave and I have not yet met her. I shall now remedy that! I said a little earlier that there was a terrible period ahead. I have said that our household was happy, as indeed it was at the end of November 1884. We were to celebrate my 34th birthday on 4 December, and as the Prince of Wales's letter had arrived two days earlier we decided on a feast; after all, it is not every day that a personal letter arrives written in his own hand by a member of the Royal Family. I had not mentioned what had happened to anyone, but the arrival of the letter meant that too many questions would have to go unanswered for comfort, so I told Amos and Arthur, making it very clear that the matter was never to be spoken of. At dinner on my birthday five of us sat down as usual: Amos in his chair at the head of the table with Arthur on his left and me on his right. John was next to me and Henry next to Arthur. The chef had prepared something special, Henry told us, knowing that it was no ordinary birthday dinner. The 'something special' was ceremonially brought in - a dish none of us had seen before. Lobsters, prepared in a fancy way in a rich sauce and carefully spooned back into their shells. We three men had eaten lobster from time to time, but neither Henry nor John had seen - or even heard of - such strange fare and John in particular was alarmed at the prospect of eating what he said looked like a giant insect. I have never forgiven myself for laughing at him. We started to eat and after a couple of mouthfuls Amos tapped his glass. "I cannot rise, my friends, but I wish to propose a toast to my son on his birthday. Seth, today is more special than we can say. Well done, my boy, I am more proud of you than I can tell you." He and the other three drank my health and I made some brief speech of thanks. When I sat down again John was gasping for breath, holding his throat. There are no fish-bones in a lobster, I thought, has he choked perhaps. I slapped him on the back but his gasping grew worse. He half stood up, still trying desperately to breathe. I clasped him and lowered him to the floor with Henry's help. It seemed there was nothing we could do. If he were choking then hitting his back severely should have dislodged any morsel stuck in his throat, but such treatment availed nothing. John became blue in the face and lips. I could not get him to drink - what could be done? To this day I have tortured myself with the fact that I was not able to help him - to save him. He died on the floor not five minutes after the first taste of his fatal insect. Naturally we summoned the doctor, but poor John was long dead by the time he arrived. He examined John and made us describe exactly what had taken place. He confirmed that there had not been any food lodged. "It seems that he had a very swift and terrible reaction to eating lobster. Had he eaten such food before?" He certainly hadn't while he had lived with us, and Henry said that there hadn't been any chance of fancy food before they came to us. "In that case, I fear it was a terrible accident that none could have foreseen," said the doctor. The coroner agreed, adding his consolation at the loss of a young man in such unusual circumstances. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ =============================================================================== The fun - not perhaps the right word on this occasion - continues in Chapter 58 as Seth meets Mary. There was a raid on a boy brothel in London in July 1889, but it was not in Bayswater. The Duke of Clarence (the future Edward VII's eldest son) was rumoured to have been there, but no evidence was ever found to prove it. A number of prominent men were apprehended, including a royal equerry. The Duke died of pneumonia in January 1892, shortly before his 28th birthday. My story is however wholly fictional, and I have placed the incident some years earlier, and allowed the equerry to escape detection. Drop me a line at badboi666@btinternet.com - that is after you've dropped nifty a few quid. ===============================================================================