Date: Mon, 30 Sep 2019 22:10:10 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Last of the Line Chapter 6 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 6 I must get on. While descriptions of warm snatched hours in bed with Billy and Rivers in that Christmas holiday would be rewarding to write - and perhaps to read - there's much to tell, and staying in December 2032 won't do. Before I go on, though, I must clear up a couple of things. Jorrocks was no fool. When he asked me to come back that first afternoon after Billy had gone home it was to ask me, very gently, to be kind to Billy. "He's a good boy, Master Dab, but when he comes here to work he'll be just one of nearly two dozen of your mother's staff - your staff one day. Don't become too familiar with him - no, let me finish. While you're still 13 or 14, and he's not a great deal older it seems quite natural for you and he to be friends. I know there are no other boys on the Estate, and in the school holidays it's only right that you want friends of your age. But one day you'll be 20 and he'll be 22. You may be the Earl by then. How do you think Billy will feel then?" It was a big speech - the biggest I'd had from Jorrocks. "Oh, Jorrocks, I don't know," I said. I was still fresh from our first session in bed, and tears had only recently been wiped away. My eyes were probably still red. "You're right, of course," I said, trying to pull myself together. "Never mind now, Master Dab, you're still 13, as I said. But give it thought, won't you?" and the kindly old man squeezed my shoulder, man to man, as it were. Bloody tears were close again. Oh dear. "Off you go then," he said tactfully, and I scooted out into the night, straight back to Rivers's place. "That sounded jolly," he said as I put my hear round the door. "Mmm. He's a very sexy boy, is Billy. I think I might persuade him to let you play in a few weeks, but let's not rush." "Of course not, Dab. Softee softee catchee monkey." It was an expression Archer would no doubt have been familiar with, thanks to Mr Yates his high Edwardian manner of speaking, but it was lost on me. Rivers explained. "What were you reading? It must have been sexy if you hid it away so quickly." Rivers blushed again - I seemed to have a habit of making people blush. He fished out a magazine from a drawer. Here. You'll like it, I think." he said. He was right. It was a set of coloured photographs of boys and men engaged in the sort of activities in which Rivers and I were so practised. "Where did you get it?" I asked, "it's hot stuff" - Archer would have used a similar expression, and I resolved to be more careful in future. "Amsterdam. Boy sex hasn't been illegal there for ages. They weren't sucked in to the Moral Crusade, luckily - too much sense, and too much money to be made selling stuff like this to the poor English who were being turned into Puritans again. It's not cheap, but it's easy to get hold of. I've got plenty more." I grinned. "Then I shall visit you for reading sessions as well as more practical ones." It was Rivers's turn to grin. "Very well, your lordship." "Oh, fuck off, Rivers." ***** As I have said, the turmoil in the outside world largely passed me by. Neither at home, nor in the village, nor at either of my schools had the social upheaval of the 20s been apparent. I was aware that there had been rioting, but it was confined to half a dozen cities, none of them within 50 miles. It seems incredible now that I - and the Estate generally - were so untouched by what was going on, but when you're a boy of 10 you don't read the newspapers. Ah! there's word from the past. I wonder if any of you who might be reading this have ever seen a newspaper. Dunstable explained to me one day - not that long after my 16th birthday, I expect: we had a lot of very serious conversations around then - that when he had been a young man in the 1990s and early in this Century there were several newspapers printed every day, and, as far as he could recollect, much of what the serious ones printed was pretty reliable. They came from the Left and the Right, but all of them, even the ones aimed - as he put it - at the less lettered classes took the affairs of state as something to be treated squarely and honestly. I can't remember when they stopped printing them - probably around the time I was 16. Information - if you could call it that - was obtained on hand-held telephones, apparently. I do remember them, although they stopped being usable after the Electric War. I don't think there's any reliable way of finding out what is happening in other countries now - or even the more distant parts of this one. But foolish old man that I am, I've gone from dwelling too lovingly on a lust-filled, but largely innocent 2032 to something much darker and more frightening. You need to hear about the years in between. Before I do, though, I ought to flesh out - if that's not the most inappropriate word - the Moral Crusade. I've mentioned it twice now. It seems to have started in the early 2020s as far as I can discover. A bunch of middle-class women in the Midlands felt themselves called upon to cleanse English society of 'filth', carefully not defined. They got a certain amount of coverage, but when three leading Cabinet Ministers were shopped as regular frequenters of a boy brothel in Bayswater (the same one of which my father was a patron) the thing blew up. My father, as I've explained, got out in time - he came home late one day, hastily packed a couple of cases, kissed me good-bye ('be kind to Mama, Dab') and caught a flight to Spain that night. The Cabinet Ministers were less speedy in their reaction - they may not even have been warned as my father had been - and their fall from grace was spectacular, and much enjoyed by all concerned. The ladies from Birmingham found themselves on if not the front pages, certainly the editorial ones, and the Moral Crusade was launched. Given the state of the economy at that time, with steeply rising unemployment and no sign of improvement for years to come, it wasn't difficult for certain right-wing newspapers to whip up hysteria. They had had years of practice aiming their vitriol at black people, and now they had another target. The problem was that black people were rather easier to identify than 'filthy perverts' who, for all practical purposes looked like you or me (especially me). Thus neighbour was easily persuaded to turn against neighbour; family member against family member; friend against supposed friend. Old scores were settled. There was even a serious attempt by the incoming Government (while it lasted) to set up a sort of Moral Police, but that idea foundered against the sturdy rock of that's-not-English-ness. Eventually the Moral Crusade petered out, but not before prostitution in all its forms ('filthy' as well as the older variety) had been criminalized, sex shops closed down and all forms of publishing subject to censorship. I imagine they'd have outlawed wanking if they could. Bradley at last won and put a stop to all that nonsense. By 2031 the Moral Crusade's cleansing revolution had been reversed - all the regulations and censorships were abolished in his Act of Reform of that year - the Act which at last put England back on track. At least that was the plan, and it worked well until it was overtaken by events. These, however, are still well in the future as we return to school. ***** 2033 started well. Billy was installed in a clean room with a nice bed, and started his land-service with the Estate. This achieved three welcome ends. He learned a trade which would keep him and, eventually, his family with food on the table and no real worries; he avoided military service and being sent to be shot at in the Middle East, then still habitable and fiercely fought over until suddenly it didn't matter any more; and - more important at the time to both of us (and now and again to Rivers) - he and I fucked each other's brains out as often as we could. Until the turn of the year fucking had not been part of Billy's and my regular activities, but once he got his own bed he decided that it ought to be celebrated. He came to work, as I've said, on the first Monday of 2033. I'd been into the village the Saturday before and had bought a couple of things to make him feel at home. Rivers has obtained something too, at my request. So at 4 o'clock that Monday when Billy knocked off he and I went up to his room with Mrs Jorrocks. "I've made it nice for you, Billy," she said, showing him the cupboards and so on, and pointing out the tiny bathroom. I was pleased to see that it had a shower as well as a bog. "It's very nice, Mrs Jorrocks," said Billy, thank you for making it cosy." Mrs Jorrocks beamed. She was a round, rosy-cheeked little woman, just like the pictures of Mrs Tiggywinkle in a book I had as a little boy. Once she'd shown Billy all there was to see she bustled off home to see to her own brood. Well," I said, "it's cosy all right. Here's something to make it special." I gave him a small parcel. "Is this from you, Dab?" I nodded. "Thanks - thanks a lot." He carefully opened to reveal a little notebook and a pen - a rarity back then, although common enough again now. "It's for writing down your ideas about stuff," I said lamely. It had seemed such a good present when I bought it, but now it was opened it seemed silly. Billy saw it differently though. "Wow! Dab, that's lovely. I've never had a pen, or a private book to write in. Tell you what - I'll write down how much I've enjoyed the things we do in here after you've gone each time." That did it. We were in each other's arms, lips frantically seeking lips; tongues lashing and caressing tongues; hands feeling trousers; hands finding cocks; clothes whipped off; bodies trying to get as much skin touching the other as possible; tumbling onto the bed; kissing kissing kissing; 69 - aaah! - as fountains of spunk hurtled from cock to mouth to the other mouth; exhaustion; cuddling; eye-gazing and then - it had to happen eventually - "I love you, Billy," I whispered. "Yeah. Me too, Dab." Shortly after I gave him the other present - the one Rivers had got for me. "What's this?" "It's lube - slippery stuff so that when we fuck it goes in nicely." "Are we going to fuck?" "Yes," I said simply, "but not till you're ready. There's no hurry." "I don't know how, Dab." "Don't worry, Billy, I do. Trust me," and we cuddled some more. Over the next two years I would spend a lot of time in that bed - more (but not vastly more) than I would spend in Rivers's. It was nearly a month before Billy first fucked me, and only a couple of weeks later that he managed to make his fucks last long enough for both of us to be satisfied. In April he asked me to fuck him, and although he knew everything about what I'd got up to with Guy, Rivers and the masters at school (to say nothing of the inhabitants of Canning and Goderich) he was delighted that I managed to keep it in him for nearly 20 minutes. Billy was the first boy with whom I had entirely wonderful sex both ways round - doubtless because he was the first boy I loved. ***** But yet again I've leapt forward. The Lent term of 2033 was when the Headmaster told me about my father's death, and I inherited the earldom. Rivers, as you know, offered comfort in the Rolls by the A429. Later that day what Billy offered was even more comforting. He was confused, I think, by my complete lack of grief at my father's death. "Aren't you sad, Dab, even a bit?" I tried to explain that my father had buggered off (happy phrase!) when I was 4 and that I had probably seen him only a handful of times since then. "He might just as well have been a stranger, Billy. Jorrocks was far more important to me as a little boy. He always had time to show me things. He helped me start a snail farm once." I had forgotten the snail farm until that moment - the Fifth Earl lying in the gardener's boy's arms in the gardener's boy's bed: very Connie Chatterley - for it had lasted only a couple of weeks. Snails are fun to find, and fun to watch for the first day or two, but they don't actually do a great deal, and my interest soon waned. I think Jorrocks probably returned them to the wild at the end of whatever holidays it had been, and I returned to Barnes, or Guy, or whoever was providing what I needed at prep school. Billy said nothing. Snails weren't really a topic of conversation which led anywhere. "I like Mr Jorrocks," he said after a while. We agreed about that. My father, like the snails, slipped from the agenda. That was the day Billy first fucked me. Billy's cock was curved upwards when he was erect, and when he fucked me it rubbed against parts of my insides that other cocks hadn't done. Prendergast was longer, as was Guy, but the ends of their cocks, although further up me, didn't have the rippling effect on my prostate that Billy's had. So when Billy finally got it in, even though it didn't last long I knew that once he got used to fucking me, and made it last, I would be carted off to heaven each time. It sounds silly now, but I was 13 and in love. When he came that first time I was on my back and my legs were round his shoulders. "Oh Christ, Billy, keep it in me for ever, it's so good," I moaned. It wasn't important for me to come, but keeping that wonderful cock, joined onto that wonderful boy, as far inside me as possible was the only thing that mattered. We clasped each other as he finished pumping his spunk where it belonged, and we stayed that way, not moving, not making a sound, until he slipped out. I felt spunk leak from my arse and trickle slowly down my crack. "It'll make your bed wet unless you catch it," I whispered. He got off and knelt between my legs. I put my hands under my arse and lifted my hips as high as I could. He leant forward and I could feel his lips gathering everything which had leaked out. "Share," I murmured. "Sorry I was so quick," he said quietly when his spunk had gone. "Don't be, Billy, it was great. It'll be better next time, I promise." I lay on my back and put my arms round him. "No," he said, "I want to suck you off. I love your cock, just like I love everything other thing about you." I smiled. Life was good. Billy's lips and tongue were very proficient by this time - he was a quick learner - and I was soon shooting spunk over his tonsils. "Does it taste any different?" I said. "What do you mean." "I'm an earl now, so it surely tastes special." Billy took a moment to think. "No, not yet, but don't forget this spunk was probably made yesterday when you weren't. It'll be much more special tomorrow." I grinned. "You might try again in half an hour, `cos that's bound to be today's." He did. And then he fucked me again. ***** Back at school there was much curiosity - restrained at first - in Canning. "Was it awful?" asked Bottomley, "the funeral, I mean." I didn't know quite how to reply. The whole affair had been a big strain, but neither my mother nor I had felt much affection for the bloke in the coffin. The Estate expected us to put on a show, and, as Mama said, `noblesse oblige'. It was difficult for both of us, but we managed. The Fourth Earl went to lie with his ancestors in the crypt of the village church. "You'll be there one day, Dab," said my mother, "but I hope not for a few years." Mama had a strange sense of humour, and when she was sober she often managed to say the wrong thing. I'm glad to say that 66 years have passed and I remain above ground. Mama's prediction about where I will fetch up proved wide of the mark. I don't know where it'll be, but it won't be in the village church, not after last month. It was evident that my Canning companions had tactfully agreed that sex was off the agenda until I had recovered from my grief, so none of them lay on his bed wanking. "What's up?" I said, "have you been caught at it by the Housemaster?" Nervous laughter greeted this, then Aitken volunteered the information that they had agreed to respect my grief. "Oh, for fuck's sake!" I said, "it's done with. He was my father, but I hardly knew him. I bet none of you have done it with an earl before, so why are you waiting?" It was true. Aitken's father was a Baronet, but the other two were from families who would not be troubling Debrett. Needless to say Archer put himself at the front of the queue. "May I have the pleasure of the first wank, my lord?" Life had returned to normal. When Archer and I had finished the other two were grinning like a pair of monkeys. "What's so funny?" I asked. Aitken explained. "The second night you were away Wilson came in from Goderich. 'Can I have a word?' he said, quietly closing the door behind him. It was about twenty minutes after lights-out, and luckily we were all in bed after our exertions." I grinned: they can't have been finished for long. "Anyway, he said that the four of them in there thought it likely that the four of us in here - all Pups - were, how shall I put it, up to mischief with our Trainers. 'Right,' said Archer, 'you are as well then?' It turned out that Wilson and Brown wanted to chum up with us 'for a change' as he put it, and were we interested. 'Good idea,' said Archer, 'one of us'll come to you tomorrow night to fix it up', and Wilson shot off back to Goderich. The four of us, wide awake now that fresh sin was on the horizon, talked about the best way of going about it. After much arguing we decided that Archer and I would go the next night, and if they were happy about it, two of them would come in here. I'm sorry you missed all this, Dab, but don't worry, it's going to be a regular thing. We agreed to visit every Tuesday night, so you've only got 48 hours to wait." There was little opportunity for contact with Wilson and his colleagues during the day - our paths didn't cross much - but one of the Goderich crew was in my Maths set. As we went into the next lesson I nudged him. "Meet after, MacDonald." MacDonald agreed readily - he must have known what I wanted. The lesson dragged, but eventually the bell went and we swarmed out. "Come on," I said, and the two of us made for the Library. It was Break and we had 20 minutes before the next load of education was due to be pumped in. "I know what this is about," said MacDonald, "you missed out, Cunliffe." Yeah, but that's going to be put right tomorrow night, isn't it? I'm Dab, by the way." "Dugald." "That'll makes us different, Dugald, because the other three in Canning are just surnames." I rather fancied Dugald MacDonald, largely because of his freckles, but he had the sexy smile of a boy whose top front teeth are still too big for his jaw. That and freckles have undone me a good few times down the years. "Who's coming tomorrow?" Dugald said that Wilson and Blair were due to visit Canning, while Bottomley and I were coming to (and as often as possible, in) Goderich. I asked him what the form was. "There isn't any yet, Dab, tomorrow's only the second time. Last time everybody went back to their own dorm after the close of play, so I suppose that's what'll happen tomorrow. Why?" I said I was interested in whether boys had slept together - a thing I'd never done nor, I discovered that night, had any of the others. When Rivers and I fucked I often wanted to stay in his bed all night, but of course that was out of the question. Here, in Canning or Goderich, it might be possible. But I said nothing of this to Dugald. I made a point of catching Bottomley that afternoon. Morry was strutting his stuff behind the scrum and Bottomley's Trainer (a cross-country runner) was out presumably working up a sweat. We had an hour before we might be called upon to carry out Pup duties. "Tell me about the visit from Goderich - MacDonald mentioned a bit about it. It sounds like I missed an adventure." "Archer and Aitken went into Goderich one night. I wasn't too pleased at being left behind, but they said it was only two of us invited. Now that you're back I suppose it'll always be two. Anyway, I cheered up when our door opened a minute later and Callaghan and MacDonald crept in. 'Only one of you?' said Brown. I explained where you were. 'Oh, poor Cunliffe,' they said, and that was you forgotten. 'You'll have to cope with two lusty fellows from Goderich, Bottomley,' said MacDonald. I said that would be entirely to my liking, and we got on with it." "What do you mean 'got on with it'? - I need details, Bottomley, I've been like a bloody monk since I was last here." "You've been fucking boys then, have you," grinned Bottomley, for the ways of those in monastic orders were the subject of much ribaldry in those parts. Bottomley related a list of what had happened in Canning that night. He, keen cocksucker that he was, had had his desire for spunk satisfied by both Brown and MacDonald (the latter twice). Brown had fucked him. He had tried to get MacDonald to fuck him too, but the poor boy's energies were already down Bottomley's throat. "He promised to fuck me next time though. They're both good fun, Dab." He'd not called me Dab before, and I found it agreeable. "If I'm Dab, who are you?" "Promise you won't laugh." I gave the undertaking Bottomley sought. "My family call me Tommy, but I think that's childish. Here I want to be Tom. If you call me that maybe the others will." "Tom it is then," and a pact was agreed. Tommy was dead and buried. "We're due there tomorrow night, Dab. It'll be good fun now you're back." "Yeah, Tom. Can't wait. Let's not wank tonight, OK?" Another pact was agreed. =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter7 as Tom and I enjoy the hospitality of Callaghan and MacDonald in Goderich. The story is, of course, fiction. Drop me a line at badboi666@btinternet.com - that is after you've dropped nifty a few quid. ===============================================================================