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Subject: Last of the Line – Chapter 91 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. fty/donate.html =============================================================================== Chapter 91 I asked how the meeting with Ogilvie had gone. “He was a bit surprised to find that I was not a lot older than Hamish,” said Jack, “but when I told him about my vast expertise in the subject he seemed happy.” Hamish added a little detail. “What happened was that Jack said you’d been called away, and that as he was going to be my supervisor anyway he would answer any questions Ogilvie might have.” “And were there any questions?” “A few,” admitted Jack. “He wanted to know a lot about who I was and where I fitted in to the Estate. I told him about Hester and College, and he seemed happy with that. I told him all about the crops we’d already planted and how they would need some attention, and that the big decisions about long-term planting wouldn’t be made until the spring, and by then we’d need almost a full-time worker. He asked who would make those decisions, and I said it would be you and me, Dab. I hope that’s OK, but it seemed to be the simplest answer. He then asked who the full-time worker would be before Hamish left school next June. I backed out of that and said it wasn’t a decision for me to make. He was happy with that. ‘Very well,’ he said, and he asked Hamish a load of questions – was he happy with the arrangement, were his parents happy, that sort of thing. Then he said that he was content with what was planned. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘Hamish will be getting a lot of experience of the life he will face when he is 16, and if he is to be employed here then – as I assume is the case – he can only benefit from being given a degree of responsibility before then.’ Then he took Hamish out and spoke to him privately. “What was that about?” I asked. “Oh, he just wanted to be sure I was OK, that I wasn’t being forced into anything.” He grinned. “The forcing-in didn’t happen till after he’d gone, but you probably heard that. We didn’t hear you coming back.” Jack smiled fondly: forcing it had not been, more entering slowly into a familiar harbour. “So you both know what’s needed?” “Yes, Dab,” said Hamish, “thank you. I’m so happy.” He knew that Jack would be coming back south with Billy and me, and I told them we would be leaving in two days. “Make the most of them,” I said. ***** It was only right that Jack and I went to see the Gunns before we left. We went down the next evening to let them know that all the plans were in place. “He will have a list of instructions about what needs to be done,” said Jack, “and we’ve given him a zipper in case he has any questions.” I said we would bring him back the following morning before we set off south again. “He’s helping Billy make our evening meal,” I explained, “he’s turning into a capable cook, so long as opening tins and putting the contents in a saucepan counts as cooking.” Rose smiled, “I’ll make sure he does his share in the kitchen then.” The four of us had a busy night. The sling was occupied non-stop for over two hours, and industrial quantities of beer passed through four bodies – much of it more than twice. It was after midnight before Jack and Hamish finally curled up in each other’s exhausted arms. There wasn’t really room for four – a problem which wasn’t really a problem at all – but nevertheless I decided that buying a second bed was something which would have to be done before long. Jack and Hamish made their farewells at Inverthrum, since their doing so chez Gunn would not have been wise. ***** Jack was quiet on the way home. “Cheer up,” said Billy, “you and I will be back here when Dab goes off to bugger the choir next month. Only five weeks to go.” “38 days,” said Jack mournfully. “It’ll be worse for him,” I said, “because at least you have people to fuck and people to talk to about how you’re missing him. He, poor boy, has neither.” “I know,” said Jack, “that’s what I’m sad about, but I know there’s nothing I can do.” “Yes there is,” said Billy, “you can zip him every day to tell him you love him. That’s what Dab used to do for me when he was at school.” Jack smiled a wan smile. “Yeah, you’re right I suppose.” We got home and daily life resumed. I know you will wish to hear about everything that transpired there, and about Seb and Dodo’s adventures, but things here – late in 2099 as I am writing – are getting worse by day, and I’m not sure how much longer I am going to be able to write. I must pass quickly over things I remember with pleasure – things you would enjoy hearing about – so that I get to the end of my story while I still can. Despite my haste and my need to edit the whirling memories I have of the last 60-odd years there are still vital parts I must record, so you must forgive me if I speed up the more leisurely pace of the last few months in Uttoxeter and Inverthrum. Mind you, there were inevitably kilis escort rather fewer exploits with boys in the next 60 years than there had been in the last half dozen. Before I went up to Fisher again I spent more time with Bertie who, you may remember, was engaged with his valet Matt and his new young gyp Thomas. They are all three naked and keen – urgently so – to experience a new sensation. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ No sooner had Matt said that I was to piss on both of them than he and Thomas lay on their backs on the sheet. Two faces grinned up at me. “Are you sure about this? Thomas?” Both nodded. OK, I thought, I know how to put the icing on this cake. “Thomas, turn round so that each of you can suck the other’s cock – that’s right – now lie on your backs. If you want to such each other you both turn inwards, but not yet.” I stood at one side of Matt, my cock half-hard in my hand. “Ready?” “Yeah, come on, Bertie, do it on us,” said Matt. I let fly, aiming first to soak each boy’s belly and chest. Matt began to rub it over his body, and Thomas copied him a moment later. Naturally when their arms got in the way of my flow it went everywhere – an outcome foreseen by me (and perhaps by Matt) and, after a moment’s startlement from Thomas, accepted as one of those things that happened in this strange new – but great fun – activity. When I saw that Thomas was enjoying it all I aimed at his cock – hard and now soaked with piss – then moved up to do the same for Matt. Inevitably there was a degree of splashing onto Thomas’s face … Thomas showed no distaste at this: indeed that was when he turned inward to take Matt’s cock into his mouth. I moved back down to Thomas’s cock and Matt’s lips were in place as my flow reached them. “Happy with that?” I said softly. Two boys each raised a thumb. I pissed on; they sucked and tongued on. Soon I was empty, and I stood back to watch them pleasuring each other, piss-covered boys oblivious to everything apart from their own cock and their own mouths. Hands were soon in play and I saw that they were going to go on until they came in each other’s mouth. If I judged it right, and if they were lucky, I might just manage to add a further layer of icing I hadn’t planned. Thomas’s body began to twitch – his stomach muscles announced that he was close to shooting. I stood over them, wanking fast. Matt moaned as he felt Thomas beginning to come, and he held Thomas’s arse tight as the younger boy poured spunk into his mouth. Matt too was close – I knew the signs only too well – and he started to come before Thomas had finished. I was about ten seconds behind them, my spunk flying out to land on Thomas’s chest – four lines which ran slowly off his slippery skin to the sopping sheet. Matt had seen this (Thomas’s eyes were tight shut until he felt my spunk squirt onto him) and put a hand out to keep it from being lost. He reached up and took hold of my wilting cock in a spunky hand, pulling me down. “That was special, Dab,” he said, his eyes full of mischief. Thomas murmured his appreciation and, eying my spunky cock, asked nicely if he could ‘clean up for you, Dab’. It was a hot day, and there was no great hurry for the three of us to troop inside for a shower, so we spent a very relaxed quarter of an hour enjoying tongues on cocks and other areas upon which traces of spunk were to be found. Although none of us had spunk anywhere near our arseholes it seemed only right to be completely certain: one never knew, after all. We went inside to shower – alas only singly as the shower would accommodate only one at a time. Still, there was all night … ***** Back in College when our brief stay in Norfolk was over there were only a few days before I left for good. Apart from the formal Graduation Ceremony there was nothing I had to do – nothing, that is, apart from spend time with (and in) Thomas. He had been thrilled with the sessions with Matt and me in Norfolk, and was visibly downcast knowing that I wouldn’t be there much longer. I did what I could to cheer him up, but it was Matt (who had stayed on as my so-called guest) who found the right words. “You’ll get over him, Thomas, and you’ll be in the right place to see if any of next year’s students on your staircase are up for a bit of fun with a sexy boy like you – you never know, you might fund someone even more fun than Dab or me.” Thomas wasn’t too sure. but at least he seemed to cheer up a bit. I knew it was far easier for an undergraduate to suggest such matters to a boy than it was the other way round, but Thomas would have to find his own way into the trousers of those he fancied. Our last hour together, with Matt in attendance, was pretty volcanic and Thomas excelled himself by coming three times – twice while I fucked him and once in a beautiful-to-watch 69 with Matt. I hoped that no-one at home would ask what he had been up to before leaving what was still officially kitchen duty, duty unlikely to bring on such a visible state of exhaustion. But at 14 they recover quickly, thank goodness! I gave him £5 as we parted (to his great amazement) and Matt gave him a prolonged kiss. Tears weren’t far away from poor Thomas. ***** It won’t surprise any reader of this memoir to learn that after I came down from Cambridge kıbrıs escort and settled into what James rather condescendingly called ‘real life’ my sex life became less exotic. Matt and I still slept together (after we’d shared wide-awake activities together) as, as far as I was aware, did James and Richard (and, continuing a family tradition which had inevitably lapsed while I was in the RAF, did James and I from time to time). While what happened in our bed was always pleasing it was never as varied as had been the case at Fisher. No matter – life was good for the first year as I began to familiarise myself with the running of the Estate. “One day,” said James, “you’ll have to do all this. It was run down badly in the War, but since then the Steward and his staff have begun to turn things round. You’d better talk to him and get your knees under the desk.” That conversation had taken place at Christmas 1948, and I obeyed his direction in the New Year. It was a damn good thing that I had, and a damn good thing that the Steward – a man called Bedford – applied himself so diligently to my instruction. Three hours every weekday morning – I had never attended lectures in as concentrated a manner at Cambridge – saw me reasonably clued up on things by the end of February. I told Bedford I was glad to have survived such intense learning. He chuckled. “We’re just about to start the real work,” he said, “as soon as it’s warm enough to spend time outdoors.” I should tell you that Bedford was well over 70 at this point, so his keenness to avoid the cold was understandable. Despite his age he was still a fine horseman and he was disappointed to learn that I had no ability in that direction whatever. Years in Canada and service in the RAF had rather pushed equestrian skills off the agenda. We agreed that I would drive us about the Estate so that I might understand the nature of the land, the crops, the drainage and all the other arcana of goof Estate management. Cambridge had taught me the theory and I was to discover that the practice was not as straightforward as a recently-qualified BA (Hons) expected it to be. And then, on 13 April, two days before Easter, I was shaken awake by a distraught Richard. Matt had got up as usual to have an early breakfast before starting his duties, so Richard’s appearance meant that something was wrong. “Your lordship, come quick, I think your father’s dead.” James was quite cold. I called the doctor, and he said he would be there within 15 minutes. While I was waiting for him I dressed quickly. I’d sent Richard to get Matt and the three of us sat on my bed. “When did you last speak to him?” I asked Richard, “be quick, and tell me the truth. We all know how things are here.” Richard was as white as a sheet. “We didn’t … do anything last night. He said he wasn’t feeling too bright, so we just cuddled and went to sleep. That was about 11. This morning when I got up it was 6 o’clock and I didn’t want to wake him. When I was dressed I sensed there was something not right, and that was when … when I saw -” and the poor boy started to cry. Matt put his arms round him. “OK, the two of you stay here. When the doctor comes I’ll talk to him. He’ll want to hear your story, Richard, and this is what happened, OK? You went to wake him at 7, just as you do every morning, and found him cold. You came to me and told me. Right?” He nodded. “Good. Now the two of you, back down to the servants’ hall and wait there. Matt, look after him.” Matt nodded, “yes, Bertie. Come on, Richard, do what he says and it’ll be all right. We don’t want the doctor to know where we sleep.” I went downstairs to wait for the doctor’s arrival. We went straight up to James’s room where I saw him lying on his back, his eyes closed, his face peaceful. The doctor did what had to be done – it took him just a few moments. “I’d say he died about six hours ago. Did you know he had been seeing me?” I shook my head – James hadn’t breathed a word about any health problems. “He knew this could happen at any time, but neither of us expected it to be so soon.” I asked what was the cause of death. “Stroke in layman’s terms. Quick, as you can see. There’s no trace of distress on his face. I see it all too often in men of his age who worked themselves to a standstill during the war years. You have my deepest sympathy.” I nodded, and we shook hands. “I’ll call in later with a Certificate. You won’t be cremating him, I suppose?” I hadn’t given it any thought – after all, James had seemed in perfect health the night before. “No, why?” I said. “You’ll need a second doctor if you have a cremation. Not sure why – I think some official suspects all country doctors are either stupid or doing away with their patients.” Reassured that an old-fashioned burial alongside all his forefathers would have been James’s preference the doctor took himself off. ***** Bertram Amos Cunliffe, Third Earl of Inchkeith. It took some getting used to, sudden as it had been, but for those of us who had been in the War the need to keep going was only too familiar. Over the next 18 months or so I made it my business first of all to complete my understanding of the entire business of the Estate, and then to make the many changes which the War both necessitated and had delayed. With food still a precious resource kırıkkale escort I moved to a greater concentration of basic foods – wheat, potatoes, fruit and vegetables – and sold some of the less productive properties, buying land adjacent to my existing farms in East Anglia where I could. By 1952, three years after James’s death the Estate finances were in much better shape and I felt I could begin to relax. I’d been working 10 or 12 hours a day for much of that time, and I was feeling worn out. I was still several months short of my 30th birthday. James’s personal affairs took some time to sort out, and I was glad that I had decided to handle all that side of things myself. Glad in particular when I found a portfolio of ancient papers in the safe which, when I had time to study them, were an eye-opening history of my forebears going back over 200 years. They remained secret for the rest of my life, but even as I read them I knew that they must be preserved – but for whom? Domestically things had changed too. Poor Richard was obviously much fonder of James than Matt or I had known, and when the Will was read and it was discovered that James had left him £250 the poor boy broke down completely. That sum – more than a year’s wages – enabled him to leave the Estate and Matt told me that the flesh-pots of Birmingham had beckoned. I suppose to a poorly-educated lad of 18 living in service in Staffordshire Birmingham must have seemed like a magnet, and it certainly drew him in. Matt told me one day several months later that Richard had sent him a letter saying that he had met ‘a nice gentleman’ and that the two of them intended to go into business together doing ‘things for other gentlemen’. “What on earth do you thing he means, Bertie?” “Running a brothel, I shouldn’t wonder,” I said, “though I don’t suppose £250 will go far.” Matt grinned. “We might visit it one day and see.” You will infer that Matt’s relationship with me had not changed as I moved up a rank in Debrett. That conversation took place around Christmas 1949: I was 27 and Matt 18. We had been bed-fellows for almost four years and I found that, agreeable as sex was with an 18-year-old, my mind often conjured up pictures of a younger boy while I was fucking him. His service as my valet was excellent, but … the piquancy had largely gone. That feeling had been growing for some months by then. “I don’t think so, Matt.” I said. ***** Curiously the matter was settled not by me, but by Matt. Just two or three months after Richard’s letter Matt said he needed to talk to me. “You talk to me all the time – what’s up?” “I need to talk to you properly – not to talk to Bertie, but to talk to Your Lordship. Can I come to your Office and do it there?” “Of course you can, Matt – or are you going to be Ashton?” His silence told me all I needed to know. I had been wrong in my guess that Richard and his gentleman friend were running a brothel. The gentleman friend turned out to be a man in his 40s; he and Richard were indeed sharing a bed – and much besides, for Richard’s £250 had been invested in a gents’ outfitters owned by his new lover. This enterprise had thrived consequent upon a handsome lad assisting the customers, and Matt had been offered a job as Richard had persuaded his lover (I can’t go on calling him that – his name was Williams) that even more money would come into the till if another young lad was on hand. My guess perhaps hadn’t been too far off: not a brothel exactly, but a business where the removal of clothing and close personal attention were part and parcel of what went on. Matt said he was in two minds about whether to accept, but I told him that his opportunity for social progress as my valet was pretty limited, whereas life in Birmingham in the circumstances described could lead to all sorts of delights. “Off you go with my blessing,” I said. He smiled, thankful I think that I hadn’t kicked up a fuss. I said he should stay for a week, and he nodded happily. “Now, Ashton, you can be Matt again for a few more days.” “Yes, Bertie. I’d like that. Thanks for being nice about it.” Oddly enough, now that the matter was settled, sex in those last few days was much more satisfying – no, that doesn’t do our sessions justice – much more erotically charged than anything in the months since James had died. I knew I’d be free to find a 14-year-old (though I had no idea how) but the 17-year-old in my hand, as it were, beat anything which might be found in a bush. Our last night, in particular, was special. There had been some kind of farewell ceremony in the Servants’ Hall during the course of which small gifts had been given and good wishes exchanged. Bedford had cautioned Matt – Ashton, as he had been below stairs, naturally – that he should not allow his ‘young head to be turned by the bright lights of the city’ and had wished him well on behalf of the household. Matt, safely Matt again in our bedroom, told me he’d been touched by everyone’s generosity. “It never occurred to me that they might give me things – I had nothing for them.” I, on the other hand, had something for him which I was sure would bring him much pleasure. I had made my own trip to the bright lights (or in this case a rather seedy back street) of Birmingham. =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 92 as Bertie bids farewell to Matt and I renew my dealings with Gordon and Edward. Drop me a line at net – that is after you’ve dropped a few quid. ===============================================================================

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