Date: Wed, 13 May 2020 07:40:05 +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 60 My son James was born in 1886. He was an energetic child, and as soon as he could walk was peering into every corner and exploring. We knew, of course, that he would remain an only child and I resolved to make as much time for him as I could since he would want for playmates. In this I was, unlike most family men of my time, lucky, for I too had been an only child and had, in consequence, been thrown on my own initiative for fun and entertainment. Perhaps it was a solitary - though never lonely or unhappy - childhood which led me into Nathaniel's company and all that sprang from it. If so the practice was continued in James (although he, like me, has fathered a son, Bertie). We are a strange lot, we Cunliffes - queer as a cartload of monkeys, yet able to produce an heir at almost the first opportunity. You will infer that James shared my preference for male flesh, though I did not become aware of this until he was well past boyhood. When he and I opened our hearts to each other on this subject he told me that he had found being sent away to boarding school both horrible and delightful. He was down for a well-known public school not 50 miles from Uttoxeter and Mary and I felt that he should have three years before then at a prep school. Accordingly I took him, aged just 10, and his trunk to an establishment recommended to me by the Bursar of his soon-to-be public school. Like any other boy aged 10 finding himself with no friends and away from home comforts he was miserable for some days, and we received letters begging that we should bring him home. Whether the tear stains were genuine or carefully applied, perhaps at the recommendation of more hardened and experienced inmates, we never knew. I was sure that after a week or two the companionship of other boys - thitherto wholly absent - would make his time at school fun in all manner of ways. And so, many years later, I was to discover it had been. His interest in other boys continued at his public school, and although the discipline was fierce he managed to conduct himself out of the eyes of Authority. (It is only fair to record that his academic record was good, and his prowess at those sports in which he indulged was enough to keep him out the savage reach of the many bullies. Needless to say Mary and I knew nothing of the bullying, for James kept such matters out of the letters home he wrote each Sunday. Also kept out of these letters were matters he disclosed to me only after Mary's death, as I shall relate.) ***** Some two months after the King and Queen had visited Mary took to her bed with severe pains in her chest. She had been uncomfortable for some days, but suddenly the pain was more than she could hide from me. I sent for the doctor, and his news was grim. He wished to bring a consultant to see her to confirm his diagnosis, and the three days before he came from Birmingham were the longest and most anxious days of my life to that moment. When a doctor's countenance tells its story as clearly as ours had done there is only hope to keep one going. At least he gave Mary a draught to ease the pain, but the worry remained sharp. The consultant examined her and told me in my office that it was cancer in her lungs, and that he thought it likely that she would not have more than three months to live. "I am sorry, your lordship. There is nothing to be done to stem the disease, and we must all do what we can to alleviate her suffering. I will talk to your family doctor and he will arrange for proper nursing." I will not set down those terrible months other than to say that losing John in five minutes was a severe shock, but one which was over before its grim consequences began to weigh upon me; with Mary the prolonged nature of her suffering (and its terrible effect on her, poor soul) was much, much worse. Curiously, and I have heard others bereaved after a long illness say the same, Mary's death when it finally came, came as a welcome relief, both to her no longer in agony and to the rest of the household no longer in pitiable helplessness. James had been very moved by the sight of Mary when he came down for the Christmas vacation, and I think he was relieved when Mary insisted that he should return at the appropriate time for the Lent term. "Your Father can give me everything I need, my dear," she whispered, "go and be among the young. Remember me as I was," and she closed her eyes lest she see him weeping. She died 22 days later. Her funeral, like that of Amos not very long before, was attended by a great number of people, and James and I were exhausted with the solemn shaking of hands and murmurs of condolences. Arthur kept in the background, but he was invaluable in making sure that the mourners who were of greatest importance were not held up too long. When at last there were only family left at the graveside Arthur had arranged for a carriage to convey us home. As James and I took off our coats there was Henry waiting with glasses of hot toddy. "Thank you, Henry," I said, "that is most welcome." He smiled a sad smile which bore into me. I handed my glass to James and Henry set his tray down. I embraced him - a thing I had not done since John's death more than 20 years earlier. We held each other for a few moments, sharing in complicated feelings of grief. We had not spoken of John for so long. "I still miss him, Henry," I murmured, and I felt him nod. I patted his back and we parted, still with wan smiles. "What was that about?" asked James when we had gone into my study. "Sit down," I said, "for it is a long story." Half an hour later my son was fully aware of my sexual appetites, both before and after I met Mary, although I did not tell him about Gilead of Stoke. He had sat quietly during my story, not saying a word nor reacting in any way. "I tell you this, James, because you must have wondered why all the servants were men, and to explain about Arthur and your grandfather." "Father," he said, "I am not blind. I have been aware of the nature of Amos and Arthur's love for one another since I was around 15. As you have confessed - no, that is not the right word in this family - as you have acknowledged that you were queer, like Amos, then I must tell you that I have inherited this Cunliffe trait, and before you express dismay let me tell you also that I am proud of what I am, proud of who I am, and glad the you and I no longer need to conceal this aspect of our lives from each other." He went on to tell me, in detail which I pressed him to provide, about his sexual awakening at his prep school and his first love affair at his public school. It was uncannily like mine, and like Amos's had been. "Shall you return to living a queer life now?" he asked. I said that I had given it no thought. "I think you - we - should," he said, "for if not now, then when? I should like to be able to bring Toby here one vacation." "Toby? Is he your lover, James?" James blushed in a deeply Cunliffe manner. "No, not yet, though I hope he might be. We share things in Cambridge and ... I am fond of him." "James," I said, "this conversation has gone on long enough, and we have shared intimacies not commonly shared by father and son. Do you and Toby fuck each other?" James grinned. "Good," I said, "then your Toby must come and spend time here in the Easter vacation." "You don't mind?" "How can I mind when I was doing the same thing at your age, as was Amos. We're a queer family, James, and you are no different from the rest of us. If it sounds incongruous that we were having that conversation only hours after laying Mary to rest you must remember that her illness had taken a toll on both of us, and her long and painful decline had led inevitably to a wish that, for her sake, her suffering could end more swiftly. The relief that her suffering was done led me and James perhaps to express ourselves - in the manner of a natural reaction - about the future in ways which would have been impossible only a week earlier. Another significant turning point in my life had arrived. No longer would there be any need for me to disguise my habits. I decided I would be more honest with myself and the rest of the household. It had been a long and trying day. "We will talk further tomorrow, James." "Yes, Father, for we each have more to explain." After breakfast the next day, armed with coffee, my son and I settled down to a frank exchange. By lunch time he knew all about my preferred age of companions and I about his: they seemed to differ by remarkably little. With some diffidence James disclosed that Toby was not another Trinity undergraduate, as I had assumed. Nor was he an undergraduate at another college; no, Toby was one of the college servants and his path had crossed James's when he had been required to assist James with unloading his luggage. A trunk had fallen and in the act of picking it up both Toby and James had come into far closer contact that would have normally happened. It sounded strange when James told me about it, but it became a great deal clearer when James added that Toby was 16. No doubt each had made full advantage of their sudden very close proximity. James had drawn from me a promise that he and Gilead of Stoke would pay a visit to Stafford before he left to return to Trinity a few days hence. He was much amused on returning from our visit to be Lysander of Stafford. I had asked the Stafford Master how names were allotted there. "Just be glad you are not Peaseblossom, James." Without either of us saying anything we came to agree that while Gilead and Lysander would be regular patrons of such establishments neither of us felt any desire for the other. "I have Toby, Father, but who will keep your bed warm?" "Seth, James, for I think 'Father' no longer appropriate. As to your question I have given it no thought. No-one has shared my bed since John, and I cannot think that I am likely to lure some lad into service here merely so that my bed is warm. I shall accept that old men have to pay for such pleasures." "You are not old, Fa- ... Seth." I smiled. I felt old. I had reached my 55th birthday three months earlier. ***** I have not written anything in this memoir for many years. My life has had little excitement or any great change since those changes in 1905 and 1906. The Earl of Inchkeith has become a figure of some modest local importance, I suppose, lending his name to various charitable concerns. Seth Cunliffe and his son James have managed and increased the size and wealth of the Estate. The Great War touched us personally, for none of the Estate staff were of fighting age except two lads, and both served with honour, returning to us in 1919 in full health. James served with the South Staffordshire Regiment and was wounded - thank God not severely - at St Quentin. There was a piece of good news in that I was allowed to visit the Stoke establishment again when the old Master was no longer in charge. James - or Lysander of Stafford - had returned one night after he had been invalided out of the Army, and the Master whom he described was evidently not the same man, and a week later Gilead was granted entry. I found - I was then nearly 70, and the War recently ended - that the range of boys offered was narrower than I remembered, and the time I passed with young Charles (15) was pleasant, but - alas - unproductive. Unproductive from me, that is. Charles produced with great vigour - on three occasions, two of which gave me the opportunity of tasting his productions. My own inability to rise to the occasion was a source of embarrassment to me however. I did not visit again. That was over a year ago now. James has taken more and more of the Estate business off my hands - James, Viscount St Kilda, that is. We had a serious conversation this morning, and it needs to be recorded. "You will be the second Earl one day, and if the Estate is to continue to prosper you will need to think about an heir. You are 34, James, and I will not live for ever." James smiled. "Do you not think I have given thought to this, Seth? What woman would want to marry a man like me? Come to that why would I wish to marry a woman at all?" "Simple. As to the second - to get an heir, and he has to be legitimate, so no visiting a brothel like Amos. You could adopt, I suppose, but where would you find the right boy? As to the first, that is easy. The woman you must marry is clear in my mind. She will be the mother of your only child, and it is bound to be a boy because no Cunliffe has fathered a girl since Joel's father. She will be the Countess of Inchkeith - a thing any woman would prize. And she will be willing to share a bed with you only long enough to get a son. After that she may sleep with whom she pleases, and if you choose wisely that will be another woman. No scandals that way, James." James was speechless. After several minutes during which I maintained a thoughtful silence he said quietly,, "how long have you had that little speech all ready to deliver?" I grinned. "Since before the War." "And who is my countess? Have you met her?" "Good God no, but I don't think it will be hard to find her. You're a Cambridge man, think where she might be." ***** Some weeks later James told me that he had taken my advice. He had found his bride in Oxford, not Cambridge. He had taken a Trinity friend of similar persuasion into his confidence and his Trinity friend turned out to be the eldest son in a family of five. His youngest sister - Cecily - had four attributes which James might find interesting, he said. She was very bright, having recently been among the first to receive a degree at Somerville, she was very pretty, she was very ambitious and - most important of all - she was a lesbian. James expressed a desire to meet this candidate for the marital bed. Would she accept a man? "We could try," said his friend. James told me that the three of them had met in London, where Cecily was living. She had been much amused by the proposition her brother had put before her, but James had assured her that his interest in a prolonged sexual relationship with her matched hers with him, but that he would willingly share his wealth and his house with her and her lover, should one present herself. Cecily asked for a week to think about it. "It all sounds very commercial," I said (we were in the middle of the week in question). "Yes, but don't you see, Seth, it answers all our - my - problems and with luck it gives Cecily what she's after." "And what is that?" "Status. She's very keen on London society and she'll be better able to enter it as my wife that as the daughter - the youngest daughter - of a country doctor. She seems to like me and if we have a son she will be an excellent mother; I've no doubt of that. Besides, she's most excellent company." I had to concede that a wife who was most excellent company, regardless of anything else, was desirable. ***** Cecily came to visit a few weeks later, spending the weekend. She and I had a long talk while we walked slowly round the upper garden. I left her in no doubt of James's sincerity. "He has told ne that you would find female company more agreeable, and both James and I are similarly inclined towards our own sex." She laughed. "Oh Seth, it's 1921. You don't have to beat about the bush. All three of us are queer, and all three of us are fine with that. James needs an heir - fine, I can give him one: it won't be too much of an effort for I like him, and he has nice legs, so our son will have nice legs too. He's happy if I find a lover, and I'm happy if he finds one - he hasn't mentioned one at the moment." I shook my head. "There's been no-one since before the War." "Well then," she said, "may I kiss my father-in-law?" James and Cecily were married in Stoke in February 1922. After a month's honeymoon travelling in Italy they moved in to the big house and I moved out to the house in which I'd lived before Mary and I were married. The expected son - Bertram Amos - was born two days after my 72nd birthday, on 6th December 1922. The Cunliffe spunk had been as powerful as ever. I never dared ask James how many fucks getting the lad had taken. Our relationship wasn't quite that close. ***** Bertie and I spent a lot of time together once he was old enough to sit still on my knee and let me read him stories. He was a bright boy, as he should have been with all the history which went into his making. Cecily took the lover we had all expected, and she and Hannah lived in the second bedroom while James lived in the main room. Lysander of Stafford became a regular visitor to the Stoke establishment, but there was never a companion in James's bed. Hannah was always a stimulating member of the household - we all lived as a family and there were no secrets - and it was sad when she said that she would be returning to her native America. She was a distant relation of the President and had obtained a position through him in Washington. She and Cecily - then still only Viscountess St Kilda - left Britain from Liverpool in June 1925, much as Joel and Amos had done 77 years earlier. Bertie was 2½, and we all knew that he would miss his mother for only a short time. Besides, his Nanny was the important woman in his life, and would probably remain so for many years. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ That was the end of the tale. Seth wrote nothing after that. I knew from the family archives that he died in 1930, so of those years there was nothing. I knew I should have resisted the temptation, but I couldn't refrain from looking at the first page of the smaller bundle. It was written by Bertie, and what's more, written by Bertie as an old man. I put it aside. I needed a break from Cunliffe family history. Besides it was only fair to let Billy and Jack catch up. Christmas was only a week away. In two days Seb and Dodo were taking Jack with them to Tangier for two weeks over Christmas and New Year. Jack was beginning to get excited at seeing Dodo again. After breakfast the next morning I gave Billy the first chunk of the memoir. "Here you are, Billy, 1808 to 1925. Lots of fucking for you to feast your eyes on." Jack asked plaintively if his eyes might also do some feasting. "Of course, Jack," said Billy, "just let me get a few years ahead of you." He turned to me. "Thanks, Dab. I've waited ages for this, and it will be a pleasure to escape from Widmerpool for a while." I knew how he felt. Just then the post was brought in. I riffled through them quickly - a few bills, lots of unwanted stuff I didn't bother reading, several Christmas cards and one in handwriting I didn't recognise. I put it and the Christmas cards aside, then my curiosity got the better of me. It was addressed to Dab Inchkeith, not the Earl, or anything like that. I opened it. It wasn't a Christmas card after all - it was something far more interesting. "Dear Dab "I hope you don't mind me writing to you. My father has been told he has to be in Montreal for the next two months and Mama is going with him. They want me to stay with my aunt and uncle in London but I hate being there - they have a really annoying pair of bloody daughters who make my life hell. Can I come and stay with you? If you say yes I can persuade Mama that you're really respectable and that 'cos I know you at Fisher they'll think you're a teacher or something. I'm sure you can swing it, Dab. Please? "Love, Gordon xxx" "Listen to this, you two," I said, and read them the letter. Jack looked interested. "Is this one of the ones you've been fucking - the ones in the choir?" I nodded. "Bet it's the blond one," said Billy. I nodded again. "How old is he?" said Jack. "12½." "He's far too young." "Same age you were, squirt, when Dab rescued you," pointed out Billy, "do you think it's realistic, Dab?" I shrugged my shoulders. "No idea, but I'd certainly like to try - he's electric in bed and he likes wet games. You'd love him." "Bugger," said Jack, "I'll miss the fun." "Never mind," said Billy, "you've got Seb to fuck in Africa, and if this Gordon can swing it with his parents he'll probably be back for more. You know how persuasive Dab can be." I zipped Gordon. "Great, but how do we fix it? Dab x." A zip came back less than three minutes later. "Mama will phone you. Be prepared. G x." I went to the office and closed the door. I would need to think quickly. His mother would surely know that I was not his teacher, so I had to have a better story to tell. The phone rang. =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 61 as we have an unexpected guest for Christmas. Drop me a line at badboi666@btinternet.com - that is after you've dropped nifty a few quid. ===============================================================================