Voyeur Sex


Subject: Last of the Line – chapter 95 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 95 That term passed pleasantly. Edward and Henry attended for lessons twice a week as Colin had instructed them, and Edward and I were delighted to see Henry’s horizons expanded. Lesson 4 (and many more) had been given and the contents mastered, doubtless thanks to a diligent attention to homework. Henry had proved himself an apt pupil, and nothing which had been suggested proved other than of great satisfaction to him (and, it must be confessed, to his teacher and self-appointed mentor). Henry’s birthday fell on a Tuesday, so the three of us celebrated the following day. He looked tired when the two of them appeared. “Stupid bugger overdid it last night,” explained Edward. “There’s six of them on his dorm and because he’s the oldest his was the first birthday. He told them there was a choir tradition that each boy on his birthday has to let all the others in the dorm wank him. There isn’t, by the way. Two of them wanked him quickly – they’d done it many times before – so he came twice in about 10 minutes.” I was ahead of them. “The others took ages, I suppose?” Henry, looking a bit shamefaced, nodded. “It was nearly 11 o’clock before I came the fourth time, and we agreed that Paul would do me first thing this morning. My cock’s practically falling off. I’m sorry, Dab.” “Let me see – maybe I can kiss it better.” Henry cheered up a bit. He stripped: his cock was indeed red, but rose nicely as I applied Cunliffe skill to it. “It still works then,” said a scornful Edward. It did indeed, though proof wasn’t shown until the Saturday. “You’ll be off games until next time,” I said. Henry nodded. “Won’t do that again,” he muttered. “Can I suggest that you tell them you got the choir tradition wrong?” I said, “isn’t it that each boy has to let the birthday boy wank them? That was no-one gets knackered and in a year or two you, as the oldest, will be the first one to have five cocks squirting on you.” Henry perked up at this idea. “The next birthday’s Paul’s in three weeks.” “Plenty of time for the six of you to get excited then,” said Edward. ***** By the Saturday Henry was in full working order. After I’d fucked him Edward said he would let Henry fuck him. I laughed. “Beg, Edward, not let.” Edward grinned. “Yeah, you’re right, Dab. Come on Henry, it’s time you found out what it’s like. I need all those inches up me now you’re 11.” That set the pattern for the rest of the term. Each time I would fuck one of them, and he would fuck the other. By the time I went down for Christmas Henry was the most skilled 11-year-old I’d encountered. “How will I last until next term?” he pretended to wail. “Just let James know how good you are, Henry, and he’ll be eating of your hand.” “Out of my arse, more like.” ***** Looking back, that term was special. Edward’s voice broke in the January and when the two of them appeared the next time it was with news that he was no longer in the choir. “Colin says I should still come for lessons with you,” he explained, ” because he says Henry’s too young to be on his own.” Henry snorted. “If that’s what Colin wants then it’s what will have to happen,” I said, conscious that Colin’s goodwill remained essential. During the vac I’d given more thought to the benefaction. This seemed a good time to talk to Colin about it. But I’m ahead of myself again. The vac wasn’t without fun. ***** Billy welcomed me home as he always did. Jack wasn’t there at dinner. “Where’s Jack?” I asked, “with Dodo and Seb?” Billy nodded. “He’s getting excited about driving. He’s cross that Christmas and New Year get in the way of his lessons, so he nagged those two to let him practise in their electro. Don’t ask me where they go, but he’s promised it’s on private land so it’s legal. So he says anyway.” “I trust him, Billy: he’s not told any whoppers since he’s been here with us. They probably go to one of the old airfields.” I knew there were still a few in East Anglia, but I had no idea whether such things existed in Staffordshire.” “Whatever he’s doing he’s fixed up his test a few days after Christmas. He says the man that taught us will take him for four days from the 20th, and a couple of days the next week. I think he’s daft, but he’s set his mind on it.” I put my hand on his. “We were the same. He’ll be fine.” “You don’t know the half of it, Dab. If he passes he wants to take the electro up to see Hamish.” “No way I’m going to let him drive all that way on his own, Billy.” “I told him you’d say that, but he shook his head. His cock’s doing the thinking.” “I didn’t say I wouldn’t let him go, I said he’s not going all that way on his own. Do you fancy a week in the frozen north?” Billy’s grin is really special. “Let’s wait to see whether he passes,” I said, “if he does it will be a nice after-Christmas present for him.” Billy’s grin got bigger. I do love him. “When’s he back?” Billy shrugged his shoulders. “Hester’s given him a few days off. kilis escort She says there’s not much to do here.” “I must talk to her about things,” I said, “we’ll need to think about his replacement when he goes to college.” Our first night together was as passionate as it had been when we were 15. ***** The next morning I went to see Hester. She had everything under control, she assured me, and that the time to think about getting someone to replace Jack was around May or June. “Leave it to me,” she said, “and I’ll let you know at the right time. You know he’s getting excited about driving?” I nodded. “Does he talk to you about things now – not just driving?” She shook her head. “He still keeps things close. We talk a lot about the garden, and everything that goes with that, but not about anything else. I hope he talks to his brother, because there’s still a lot of things bottled up.” “I think he’s more likely to talk to Hamish. Dodo’s been through the same things, so it can’t be easy for Jack to open them up all over again to Dodo. Dodo must talk to Seb.” Hester nodded, “just so long as he feels able to talk to someone, Dab.” An idea began to take shape. I went back in to the Library. I’d left Bertie in late 1950, 27 and celibate. My ancestress can’t have been long delayed in her arrival, surely? +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ I began to write my part of this family saga shortly after my 80th birthday. Several weeks have passed since I wrote that I was 27 and celibate. I’ve not been well – I don’t think I was well back in 1950, but the affliction then was a different one. My life in the next few years was of no great interest as far as these reminiscences are concerned. The Estate took up all my time, and it prospered. My romantic life was non-existent. Looking back now I believe that, joyful as my hours with Matt (and others) were, the aching void that David had left was still unhealed. After all, I had not loved anyone for well over ten years, and although I was my own master in my own house I felt no urge to replace Matt, or to seek sex with anyone else, man or boy. ‘Man or boy’ indeed! For I have now reached a part of my story that I would not have foreseen had I been invited to guess at what might happen to me when I was 32. I had formed friendships with a small group of landowners in the county – we had mutual interests and one of them (I can’t remember who) wrote to me in 1952, I think, suggesting we meet to discuss things. To cut a long story short we fell into the habit of dining at each others’ houses every month. There were six of us, of whom I was by a few years the youngest. Four were married, and their ladies made themselves scarce when port and business arrived. The other single man lived with his sister, and she was naturally the hostess when we dined there. She naturally made us all welcome and, seeing that I was the only unattached diner, spent more time putting me at my ease than I imagine she had expected. I found her a charming hostess, and she was as well-informed about the sort of business we would discuss after the ladies had left us. On about the third or fourth occasion I asked her brother how she was so clued-up about estate management. He chuckled. “Our father was a wily old bugger. He did his damnedest to avoid Death Duties, so he gave me the estate here on my 10th birthday and his Scottish estate – much smaller, you’ll be glad to know – to Amanda when she was 10 six years later. And Amanda, bless her, nagged him every bloody day from then to teach her what she needed to know to exercise, as she put it. ‘control over my vast wealth’. When she was about 13 he finally relented, and was mighty surprised to find out that she took it all terribly seriously. Bertie, I kid you not, she knows a damn sight more about things than I do. Thank God I’ve got a decent Steward.” Until then I had seen Amanda as being an interesting female – not the sort of person I had spent much time with in my 32 years. I began to see her differently. Three or four months later I found myself looking forward keenly to out monthly dinners: would Amanda have some new interesting avenue to share? would she … damn it, I thought, here am I, a set-in-my-ways queer, getting excited about an hour of two with a woman. You will know, because you are aware of the Cunliffe line, that Amanda and I were married in September 1955. No-one was more surprised than I when it dawned on me, some three months before then, that that was the path we both intended to take. Amanda was a worldly woman, but I did not feel her to be worldly enough to be made aware of Bertram Amos Cunliffe’s history in too much detail. She knew of David, and my desolation at his death – to have kept that from her would have been madness – but not the reason for my despair. I found, much to my surprise, that my sexual response to a woman was adequate for the purposes required. If I am honest I have to confess that my cock’s anticipation of cunt was less powerful than it had been for so many years for arse, but set against that my love for Amanda matched my love for David. I can’t explain why these things were as they were: all I can do is report that they were. The smaller Scottish estate which Amanda’s father – now long dead – had settled on her in 1938 was in Sutherland. Two or three acres surrounding a house – Inverthrum – built in the reign of George IV by her however-many-greats grandfather. We honeymooned in Ravello. I’d been kıbrıs escort fascinated by that part of Italy since I was a boy, and as Amanda had an Italian grandmother, and was therefore reasonably fluent in Italian, it was an obvious choice. In late September, out of season, it was a delight. The cliff-side tavernas and the family-owned trattorias were utterly different from anything either of us had encountered before. We visited Amalfi and Pompeii and wondered how so many people could live in Naples so close to danger. The 1944 eruption was still in everyone’s memory, according to the guide whom we had hired, but there was, he said, little one could do. Back home in Uttoxeter in a rainy October we settled down to real life like any other newly-married couple. Amanda took a great interest in the estate and made several important suggestions about improvements, most of which we made. “When are you going to show me Inverthrum?” I’d asked one morning around Christmas. “When it’s light enough to be worth going. May probably. It’s lovely up there then.” By the following May Amanda was six months pregnant, so I didn’t get to see Inverthrum until the following spring. Arthur was left with Nanny and Amanda and I drove the Bentley north for a week’s holiday. She was adamant that we shouldn’t see Inverthrum until the morning light was on it, so we spent the night in Inverness. She was right – the glow of the morning sun on the stone as we drove up was perfect. It was musty when we went in – no-one had lived there permanently since 1952 and it had been shut up for over a year as there had been no sporting lets. We went round opening as many of the windows as we could, and by the evening at least it smelt fresh. “We’re not sleeping here, are we?” I said. “Why not? The bedding’s OK – it’s not damp or anything.” She was right: the linen was fine and between us we made the big double bed habitable. “Come on,” she said with a smile, “make love to me in my own bed.” ***** The rest of that week was a joy. We explored all round Lairg – the nearest village – and further afield. I wished we had had a more sensible car – the Bentley was fine for the long haul up from Uttoxeter, but beyond Inverness it was really far too big for the narrow twisty roads. I told Amanda that we ought to buy a small car and keep it in Inverness. “Can we afford such a luxury?” I assured her we could. We planned to go to Inverness before we drove home. In bed on our last night Amanda asked if I planned to spend time at Inverthrum. “You mean come up every year?” “Mmm. You wouldn’t have to be all sporty, Bertie, but it would make a change. And when Arthur’s a little boy think of the fun he’ll have exploring.” “And bossing his brothers and sisters.” I liked the idea of a decent-sized family, and that night, as on so many previous nights, we set about the business of achieving that end. You will know, Bertie, my dear great-grandson, when you read this that there were no brothers and sisters. Running down the A74 the next day just south of Abington a tractor came straight out of a field and I drove smack into it. I was in a coma in hospital for several days and with two broken legs and a fractured pelvis it was almost a year before I could walk properly again – I still have a limp – and of course I didn’t know that Amanda had been killed until after her funeral. Thank God for Arthur. Had it not been for him I wouldn’t have got through the years ahead. Losing David had led me straight into the darkness of wanting to destroy every German I could; losing Amanda, and knowing that had I been driving a fraction more slowly, or left a single minute later, I would have been hundreds of yards away from the idiot tractor driver, was worse. Arthur, too young to know what he had lost, was my focus. Life this time, Bertie, not death. ***** Nanny stayed until Arthur was 12, though she was no longer his nanny. I asked her to be the housekeeper when Arthur was old enough not to need a nanny, and she agreed . “He’s a sweet boy,” she said one evening, “but he doesn’t need me any more.” “Not to bath him,” I agreed, “but he needs someone to clean up after him and do all the things a mother would do.” She smiled sadly. “He’s not short of love, sir, from both of us.” It was true. I’d made sure I read to him every night and tucked him in – things which gave me great pleasure – and he looked forward to what he called daddytime. So did his Daddy. I hope that Arthur felt safe and loved as a child – that was the most important thing I could have done for him. ***** Meanwhile the life of the Estate carried on – the Estate as it had been before my marriage, that is. I knew Inverthrum was going to play a large part in my life: it was, after all, the one place that spoke of Amanda more than anywhere else. While I was still unable to walk I determined that I would spend whatever was needed to make Inverthrum a properly-equipped house in the post-war era. I doubted very much if either the plumbing or the electrics would stand up to examination, but I had no plan of how to deal with these shortcomings. In fact it wasn’t until early in 1960 that I felt able to take some weeks away from things in England to think seriously about Inverthrum. I’d had a long talk with Flitwick who had tried – without success – to pour cold water on my idea of spending money there. It would, he advised, be money down the drain. “Nevertheless it’s money I wish to spend. I owe it to my wife’s memory.” That shut him up, as I knew kırıkkale escort it would. Flitwick had a broad streak of family loyalty. Rather to my surprise once he accepted that I wasn’t to be moved he became business-like and produced a folder. He had, he said, made it his business to become acquainted with tradesmen in Inverness (“the nearest place where a range of tradesmen is likely to be found”) who might be approached. Would I sanction his doing so? Greatly to his surprise I said that I wished to do so myself and, on being asked whether I was sure, I indicated that I was. “I shall go up in April when the weather might be better.” By then I was as mobile as I ever would be, and could drive without too much difficulty. Standing for any length of time was a bugger – it still is over 40 years later – but I’d got used to the nuisance of it all. ***** Amanda and I had never bought the little car we planned to keep in Inverness, and as soon as the overnight sleeper reached Inverness I set about repairing that omission. (Although I’d bought another Bentley the idea of driving it all that way with a wonky set of legs didn’t appeal – hence the train.) I got one of the new Minis I’d heard so much about. When the young man who showed me the car was pointing out all its virtues my attention was divided in a way it had not been for a decade and more. The many attributes of the Mini – as I recall it wasn’t called that at the time: Austin 7 perhaps? – were interesting, it’s true, but so was the young salesman. He awakened feelings – of admiration from a distance, as it were – that had been absent since Matt had left my life. Or had they merely been deeply buried? I shook myself: this was foolish, and the mood passed. When I went into the office to complete the purchase – forms and so on – my cheque was ceremonially taken through to the back room. A moment or two later a man came out, his hand outstretched. “It’s not often we sell a car to an earl … good God! it’s Bertie! It is you, Bertie, isn’t it? It’s been 15 years.” It took me about three seconds to dig him out of my memory. “Spider. Spider Hathaway. Good Lord!” Hathaway turned to the young man. “This is Squadron Leader Cunliffe, Rob, or it was. I flew Lancasters with him once upon a time.” The purchase and its attendant formalities were concluded with great speed. “Come on, Bertie, this calls for a celebration. You too, Rob,” and Spider (whose Christian name I couldn’t for the life of me remember) led a small party to what he called a `howff’ a few minutes walk away. Three pints stood in front of us. Three men stood in front of their pints. Rob, thank goodness, said, “Chris, why don’t we sit down while you two reminisce?” Chris – of course! While Rob was getting the second round in I asked Chris how he came to be selling cars in Inverness. “You came from Yorkshire, didn’t you?” “Leeds. After the War I wasted a few years doing nothing very useful. Then I came into some money when an uncle died. He’d owned a garage in Wakefield and he left it to me. Suddenly at the age of 28 I was the owner of a business selling cars about which I knew precisely nothing. Luckily the people who actually did the work stayed on, and after a few months I worked out how things fitted together. Over the next ten years I opened up dealerships all over the north of England. This is the third in Scotland. I like to be on the premises of all the new ones for the first few months. You bought the sixth of my new little things and you’re my first earl.” He paused. “That must mean your father’s dead – I’m sorry if that was tactless.” “Not at all, Spider, it comes to us all. He died not long after the War. Worn out.” Rob came back with the pints. He sat next to Spider … closer than … surely not? I tried to remember if there was any whiff of queerness about Spider, but as I had kept my sexuality under lock and key in the RAF the fact that I couldn’t stick a label on Spider didn’t mean anything. I watched for signs. “Why do you call him Spider?” said Rob, “it sounds creepy.” Spider laughed. “You should know, you see them often enough.” A deep Cunliffe-esque blush covered Rob’s features. “Ssh!” he muttered. “Don’t mind Bertie, Rob, he’s another. He kept it bloody quiet, but he never fooled me. I’m Spider because I have long hairy legs. When Bertie and his chums first saw a naked me when we were in the showers someone yelled that there was fucking great spider in the next shower, and it stuck.” “It wasn’t `someone’, Rob, it was Viscount St Kilda, now the Earl of Inchkeith, or Bertie to you.” Rob, much taken aback by the sudden openness about his private life, smiled nervously. “OK,” I said, “I think I know where we all are. Three queers, and you two are a couple? That would explain the blush when your gorgeous hairy legs were mentioned.” Rob’s blush returned. Spider nodded. “Yes. We live in sin and the neighbours persuade themselves to believe the fiction that Rob is my nephew.” Rob, I should tell you, looked to be no more than 20. Much as I wanted to continue the conversation I had people to see in Inverness. “Look,” I said, “I’m in Inverness on business and I have to go. Why don’t we have dinner together tomorrow night. Will you book somewhere where we can have a good meal and a long chat, Spider? I’ll ring you tomorrow afternoon for details.” =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 96 as Bertie sees to what’s needed at Inverthrum and an interesting dinner ensues. Not much action this time as the plot needed to be advanced. Things will warm up soon. Drop me a line at net – that is after you’ve dropped a few quid. ===============================================================================

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