Date: Sat, 6 Jun 2020 12:55:39 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Last of the Line - chapter 66 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 66 It was headed "Land holdings in East Anglia" and I read the Summary. It listed 1700 or so acres near Spalding in Lincolnshire on which we grew sugar beet and potatoes; almost 1300 acres near Wisbech in Cambridgeshire on which the crop was now wheat. We had grown soft fruit as well, apparently, but the very hot dry summers had put paid to that as the yields were now very poor. The property which I'd read about in Seth's papers near King's Lynn wasn't mentioned, so I assumed it had been sold. The main conclusion was stark. "The entire acreage at both sites in Lincolnshire and at the site in Cambridgeshire is very low-lying. The soil is rich and now well-drained and has yielded a good crop, and is likely to continue to do so. However the ever-present risk of flooding makes the growing of crops hazardous. There have been periods of very heavy rainfall in the 190 or so years during which the estate has owned this acreage, but the loss of crops has never lasted more than a year at the worst, and a return to good harvests has invariably followed. Even in periods of several years of colder than average weather the choice of crops has led to no great reduction in income. "The properties have always been open to the risk of inundation by the sea. While each is several miles inland the effect of a material rise in sea levels could mean, in a severe storm, that the sea reaches the land, contaminating it with salt and rendering it infertile. It is clear that with the global changes observed in the last 50 years an increase in sea level, and perhaps an increase in the frequency and ferocity of winter storms, make continuing to regard these acreages as a sound and stable source of income is increasingly hazardous. "If the Estate wishes to remain invested in productive agricultural land it is strongly recommended that steps be taken without delay to sell the properties in Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire with a view to re-investing in lands much further from the sea (and from other possible sources of increased risk as a result of further climate change, such as deeply-sloping river valleys). "Accepted scientific opinion now seems settled on a likely rise of average temperatures of some 3 degrees by 2100, and crops usually thought of as more suitable to a hotter, and probably drier, climate would be suitable. We do not address this in detail in this Report, but recommend further investigation if the decision to sell and re-invest is made." And then there was a lot more detail. The message was clear. I went to see Dunstable. "Pretty clear, isn't it?" I said. He nodded, "I think we've been lucky, Dab, doubly so." "Why doubly? I can see we've been lucky that the sea hasn't got up to us yet." "If you had gone for a scholarship at a different college you wouldn't have sat next to your soil expert at High Table, and if you hadn't had to talk to him you might never have thought of this problem." It was true, I agreed. "What do you suggest?" "We have to assume that they are right about the expected climate. We have to sell the land in East Anglia and buy elsewhere. If we don't continue to grow a crop of some kind we'll lose the food-producing status, and we can't afford that. But I've been thinking. The brewery brings in a good income, growing year by year. Why not buy land which will produce wine? Anywhere near the south coast - Sussex, Dorset, Devon at a pinch. The soil is good and if we're high enough and south-facing, vines will do very well." It made a lot of sense. "What can go wrong?" I asked. "Apart from alcohol going out of fashion, which seems unlikely don't you think, I don't see a problem provided we buy the right land in the right place. I think we need to take proper advice from someone who knows the ins and outs - I certainly don't." We discussed it further for some time, and eventually I instructed him to sell the Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire land immediately and to find out what we needed to know about a vineyard somewhere in the south of the country. Since this narrative isn't primarily concerned with the Estate finances I ought to finish this part of the story. We put the East Anglia properties on the market a couple of months later, in August 2038, and sold them in three lots at very good prices during the following few months. Dunstable consulted a wine expert who pointed us to a grower in Sussex who was planning to retire. We bought just over 400 acres on three sites all within ten miles or so of each other, and our vines were very profitable. Indeed by 2042 the income from 400 acres of vines was 20% more than what we'd made from the entire acreage we'd sold. The sea didn't reach the former holdings until the terrible storm of March 2049 when over 700 people lost their lives in the flood. By that time the sea had already reclaimed a large part of the low-lying Norfolk and Lincolnshire coastal areas round The Wash, exactly as had been foreseen. The vines escaped, although the hurricane-strength winds did a lot of damage. But, as I keep on doing, I've jumped well ahead. I won't bother you with Estate planning again. Back in June 2038 there were other things to occupy my time. I had to find out what Bertie had been up to with James in Ottawa, and in less than a week Billy and I were going up to Inverthrum. Dunstable had assured me that a great deal of progress had been made since the previous summer and I was keen to see what still needed to be done. After lunch (on my own: Billy hadn't come back from his shopping trip) I decided to see Hester. I wanted an honest opinion of Jack's work, and more important of his progress. If he had a professional qualification in his sights (or in Hester's) I wanted to be able to plan for it. There was no sign of either of them in what I still thought of as Jorrocks's lair, so I went into the walled garden to see if she was in either of the greenhouses. I found her doing something delicate to a row of small plants. It looked sufficiently fiddly that I didn't want to interrupt, but she stopped what she was doing. "I need a break from this," she said, "it needs concentration and in this heat that needs refreshment. Your arrival is the ideal excuse, and it's timely too." My raised eyebrow elicited an explanation. "We need to talk about Jack." I said that talking about Jack's future was the reason I'd come to find her. "Nothing amiss, I hope?" "Good God no, sir, far from it. The boy soaks up everything put before him. I said soon after I came here that I couldn't teach him everything he needs to know, and he really must go the college as soon as he's old enough to be accepted." "When would that be?" I asked. "He'll be 16 in December, won't he?" I nodded. "In that case if he's to go to college it ought to be the following Autumn. A bit shy of 17 isn't too young, and we both know that Jack has a wiser head on his shoulders than most boys that age." I smiled. "And one more full of life's experiences, good as well as bad," I murmured. Had Hester anything to suggest about where we ought to send him? She had, and we agreed that the next morning she would come to the office and we'd discuss it with Dunstable. "Where is he now?" I asked. "I've no idea. One afternoon a week I let him go wherever he likes. The condition is that he writes down what he's planning to find out and puts it in a sealed envelope and gives it to me before lunch. That way, he says, I'll have proof that he's not skiving - not that I think for a minute that he would. I've never seen a boy his age so diligent. Then he has to write a report on whatever it was and present it to me the next morning. I open the envelope and read the report, then after I've had a chance to think about it we talk after lunch. If you care to join us for lunch tomorrow you'll see how it works. I think you should." I said I'd be fascinated. "We eat in my little office at 12.45, and we bring our own." I said I would get something suitable from Mrs Morley and see her at 12.45 the next day. "I might even bring something to drink." This was fascinating, and it revealed a side of Jack I'd not seen before. I knew he was deeply interested in the garden, but I hadn't picked up on the curiosity angle. Then I remembered how he had been immersed in the book about pruning fruit trees. I wondered what today's project might turn out to be. I went back to the house. It was time to see what Bertie was up to. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ James and I, with Nicholas in tow, took a train from Montreal to Ottawa. It took about 3 hours and it was quite unlike any bit of England I'd seen, along a forested river valley. Our residence was a large house a few miles from the centre of the city, where James would have his office - there seemed to be just the three of us, so I had every expectation that we would carry on as we had been doing on the ship. How wrong I was! James made it very clear that Nicholas would be very much a servant, as he had been in England. His promotion to sleeping with James had been mainly to effect my seduction, and now that that had been accomplished Nicholas would sleep in his own little room. I heard all this going on over my head, and I wondered whether I would be sleeping with either of them, or on my own as I always had done. I think if I had been asked to choose I would have preferred Nicholas, for I was still in awe of James - less so that I had been, thanks to many hours of intimate contact, but still somewhat in awe. I suppose James liked it that way. "Off you go, Bertie, Nicholas will unpack with you. Dinner is at 7, Bertie, now that you're in Canada you can start to be grown up and eat with me." Nicholas led me to a little room with a little bed. My heart fell. He must have seen my face, because he took me in his arms and gave me a big hug. "It's different here," he said quietly, "your father is an important man, and he can't have any risk of scandal. It must not get out that he and I, or he and you, do things together." "Does that mean we can't?" I wailed. "Ssh! No, but visitors - important ones - will come to this house and they will need to see that everyone has their place, and that includes where they sleep." I couldn't see why a visitor would be inspecting the bedrooms, but I didn't say anything. "Does that mean -" I started. "What it means, Bertie, is that you have your own bed, and I have my own bed. It doesn't mean that we have to sleep in them though, not every night." My smile re-appeared. "Can we ... you and me ..?" "Yes, Bertie, unless your father says he wants one of us. We still fuck, but we do it discreetly." "What does that mean?" "In secret, Bertie." By that time my things had been put away. I had been accustomed at home to a maid doing all the things that never occurred to a boy - washing his clothes, making his bed and so on. "Who'll look after me?" I said, afraid that I should suddenly have to perform these thitherto hidden duties myself. "I will, Bertie, that's my job now, looking after you and your father." "Why don't you call him James any more?" "As I said, it's different now we're in Canada. In bed I expect I'll still call him James, but otherwise it's 'Sir'." Life was very complicated, it seemed, to this not-quite-8-year-old. The next surprise was Dinner. When I went into the dining room ten minutes before it was due (I was hungry) I found a table set for two. Someone I hadn't seen before was putting dishes on the sideboard. "Oh!" I said, startled. "You must be Bertie," said the newcomer, "I'm Francis. I'm the cook. You must tell me the things you like." My mind was in a whirl. Not yet 8, I had a big decision to make, and no experience of life to enable me to make it. What kind of answer should I give? One possibility was to tell this Francis what food I really liked, in the hope that such delicacies would appear. Another - one which quickly gained the uppermost in my mind (for Francis was only a little older than Nicholas and much more good-looking) - was simply to grin inanely, too tongue-tied to say what I really wanted to say. "I want you to fuck me, Francis, please." But the words didn't come, not then. Francis grinned. "You seem a sparky boy, Bertie, why don't you come into the kitchen and give me a hand." Give me a hand, I thought, just what I'd like. Francis led me off to the kitchen. "Are you the only servant apart from Nicholas? What are we going to eat? Why do you talk funny? Do you live with us?" Francis laughed, "so many questions, Bertie! Which one do you want me to answer first? No, don't tell me, or you'll ask twenty more. You're eating a hot soup, then a little fish, then a steak, and if you've got room I can probably find you some ice cream." I must have looked appreciative, because Francis, hot sexy Francis after whom I was lusting greatly but invisibly, ruffled my hair. My cock twitched. I was in love! "Yes; I'm Canadian; yes." I must have looked confused, because he amplified his answers. "I'm the only servant apart from Nicholas, I'm from Ottawa and I live in." This was the news I'd been hoping for for all of the 30 seconds I had been in love. I would make it my business to find out where Francis slept and do my best to seduce him into letting me into his bed. Foolish innocent Bertie! ***** James was very busy setting up his meetings and so forth, and when he left that first morning he gave me a quick kiss. "I will be back in good time for dinner, Bertie, and tomorrow you and I will explore. Nicholas will make sure you are all right," and the wink he gave me showed that while Nicholas was no longer sharing our bed it might well be that, at some point during the day, I might share his. "Yes, Papa," I said happily, "that will be fun." James wasn't sure whether that which I had said would be fun was exploring with him or being looked after by Nicholas. Both probably. I went, as lovers do, in search of Him, and found him unsurprisingly in the kitchen. "Hello, Bertie, what are you after?" An older boy - 12, say - would probably have told him, but I was tongue-tied again. "What would you like for lunch, eh? A growing lad like you needs something hot to fill him up." Oh God! was he teasing me? All I could do was nod mutely. "What do you like? Your father chooses what you have for dinner, but you can help me choose lunch. Why don't I make you a nice Canadian burger?" More mute nodding, for I had no idea what such a thing was, but if it was nice and it was Canadian and Francis was going to make it, then I was going to like it, and like it a lot. "A burger it is then. Would you like to help me?" Nod. Say something, Bertie, I told myself, but words eluded me: it was enough to be with Him, to be allowed to help Him, to have the chance to earn His praise for being useful. Bliss it was to be in an Ottawa kitchen that morning. At last I found words. "I'm going to be 8 soon - on 6 December - that's only 19 days away." Riveting information it was not, but it gave Francis the opportunity to help me along the road he could see clearly in front of me - of us - even though I could not. It didn't occur to me until years later (when suddenly it all fell into place) that the process of recruiting Francis must have involved the discovery of his ... suitability to join our unusual household. "We must do something very special to celebrate, Bertie. Your birthday will be on a Saturday, so you must get your father to take you somewhere for a treat. You and I will have a secret plan about what you and he have for dinner that day. Maybe we could think about your favourite things, eh?" I was awash with emotions so numerous and so pleasing that I couldn't begin to name them. I nodded. "You'll have to learn to speak though, if we're going to do things together." Oh God! more teasing. I can't remember what the taste of my first burger was, but I know it must have been utterly unlike anything I'd eaten before. Not only was it made from stuff with new flavours, but he had made and he hadn't minded when I gave him a big hug after I'd eaten it. "Thank you, Francis," I managed to mutter as I hugged him, hoping desperately that he wouldn't feel my hard little cock pressing against his leg. "You're a nice kid, Bertie," he said, "and polite too. It's good to let the cook know how excited you are." Oh God! He'd felt it! What would he think? Immediately it became all too clear what he thought, because he unwound me from where I was hugging him and picked me up. "You like me, don't you, Bertie? I can tell." I nodded, my bright red hair impossible to distinguish from my bright red cheeks as waves of embarrassment rose. Then he whispered the most magic words I'd ever heard. "I like you too, Bertie, and I know a little game we can play together," and as he whispered softly I felt his hand squeeze my cock. "Mmm," he whispered, "hard, just like mine. You can feel." I did; it was; I looked into his eyes; I nodded; he nodded. "When?" I whispered, "where?" "Help me clear up, Bertie, then maybe we can think about what the afternoon holds." Never before, and rarely since, have I set to as keenly to assist in the clearing of a table and the washing of dishes. "You're a good worker, Bertie," said Francis, "we must get you a fitting reward." More blushes, but this time accompanied by a knowing grin. He saw the grin. He made the appropriate inference (he had, after all, much more awareness of the background to his employment than I had). "Come on, then, let's find out what we both want to know.," he said, and taking me by the hand he led me through the empty house upstairs. "Nicholas sleeps in there," he said, pointing to a door I would remember, "and I'm in here." 'In here' was a small room under the roof with a bed big enough for a small boy and the centre of his universe to while away the afternoon together. "Where's Nicholas?" I whispered, "won't he hear?" for my experience on board the Empress had made me well aware that what we were going (with luck!) to do would probably be quite noisy. "He's off this afternoon, and won't be back until 5 o'clock. It's just you and me, Bertie." It's very odd looking back on it that each of us was knowing about what was going to happen, yet each of us was reticent about taking the first step. Inevitably it was Francis - worldly-wise 18-year-old Francis - who led the way. Although, as I discovered years later, he was under instructions to involve me in whatever might occur to him, he was still wary of moving too fast. 'The boy knows what his cock is for,' he had been told, 'and he knows what his arse is for as well, and he enjoys the encounters he's had with me and Nicholas. Be careful, but I'm sure he's as willing as you are.' Few job interviews contain such instructions. But of this I knew nothing - not then, anyway. Francis sat on his bed with me standing in front of him. "Are you sure, Bertie?" I nodded. "No, Bertie, say it." "I want to do stuff with you, Francis," I whispered, "my cock is telling me it wants to see yours." "And so it will," whispered Francis, grinning happily. Half an hour later my education had advanced considerably. Both James and Nicholas were uncircumcised; Francis was cut, and his cock looked funny. I commented on this, as you do when you're still not quite 8 and haven't seen a circumcised cock before. He explained. "Didn't it hurt?" I said, shocked, my little cock shrinking in sympathy. He shrugged his shoulders. "Probably, but I was only a week old." "A week old! And they nearly cut your cock off! Why?" "It's a long story, Bertie, and I'll tell you another time -" (an idea struck him: a very welcome one) "- why don't you kiss it better?" In order to facilitate this healing process he removed the rest of his clothes (as I did: what was good for Francis was good for Bertie) and I saw my lover, my God, in his glorious nakedness. I fell to my knees. Had I died I should have died happy, but I was spared, and lived to tell the tale of my first encounter with Francis, wonderful soul-filling Francis in his bedroom in an attic in a suburban villa in Ottawa in the winter of 1930. =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 67 as Bertie goes into detail. Drop me a line at badboi666@btinternet.com - that is after you've dropped nifty a few quid. ===============================================================================