last-of-the-line-2

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Subject: Last of the Line Chapter 2 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 2 As I told you earlier, my father died when I was 13, and on a cold February day in 2033 I was called out of class to visit the Headmaster in his study. This was an unheard-of occurrence, so no warning of what it might portend was available. “Sit down, Cunliffe. I’m afraid I have some very sad news. Your father was killed in an accident yesterday, so you are now the Earl of Inchkeith. I’ve arranged for you to have a week’s leave to be with your mother, and her chauffeur will be here in an hour.” I was stunned, as you’d expect. My father had never been a very important part of my life emotionally – he had lived abroad since I was about 4 – so the shock was more a social one than anything else. I must have cried, I suppose, because the Headmaster passed me a large hanky (clean, I’m glad to say, and possibly popped into his sleeve against just such an emergency) and patted my arm. (He was one of the very few adults during my time there who patted my arm without an ulterior motive.) After a couple of minutes I stood up, still shaken. “May I go to my room, Sir, and gather my things?” “Of course, my boy. I’m so sorry. Come back here with your case and wait here for the driver.” I should like to be able to tell you that the drive back home (a journey of 127 miles) gave me time to compose myself to be a brave boy, as I’m sure my mother would have wished. I did compose myself, but not from the shock of becoming the Fifth Earl. Rivers – my mother’s chauffeur – and I had spent the summer holidays getting to know each other somewhat better. In Guy’s absence I needed – how shall I put it – the fulfilment of adult company, and Rivers seemed a distinct possibility. I’d noticed that he’d paid more attention to me in the previous few months, so I decided it was time – I was nearly 13, after all – that I expressed an interest in the Rolls. In its workings, I mean – the sort of things that would require close proximity between master and pupil. My instinct was correct: Rivers proved as keen to advance our relationship as I was to have it advanced into me. Mind you, that took 10 days of feigned interest in the internal combustion engine. Rivers had a tiny pair of rooms over the garage and in his bed in the smaller of those rooms he had his – and my – wicked way one rainy afternoon. He was a bit surprised to discover that he was not the first up there, but if he felt any chagrin at this it soon evaporated. After an hour and a half we were both whacked. He’d fucked me twice and I’d come three times. “Dab,” he’d said as we lay in his bed at half-time, as it were (I’d told him that if he called me that I’d probably cum much more), “you are the sexiest boy I know. I love your ginger hair, especially when it’s between my legs.” I took this as a sign that I should get down there again and prepare him for a second assault on my arse: the first had been fierce and short-lived, with me on all fours and Rivers behind. “Can we do it a different way?” I said. Rivers would have agreed to pretty much anything, given what my ginger hair was doing to him, and the second fuck (and all those subsequent) had me on my back with my ankles locked behind his neck. “Where did you learn that?” he panted as he got it in the second time. “I’ve been to an expensive school where you learn all kinds of stuff. Bet you can’t keep it up for half an hour.” He could, I’m happy to say. Thus on my first drive as the Fifth Earl the journey was enlivened by a spell in the back in a quiet lay-by. I told Rivers that I needed to be fucked. “What, now?” “Well, not immediately, but in the next 5 miles or so. Find somewhere and you can fuck me in the back.” Rivers grinned. “Yes, Your Lordship.” I grinned. “Yeah. It feels good. Call me that while you’re driving and Dab when we’re fucking.” You will think it odd that my father’s death meant so little to me, but all I can do is report how I felt. He had been, for all practical purposes, a stranger. (I learned some years later that his removal from England had been swift and sudden. He’d been less lucky than I was to be (and his predecessors as Earl had been), and had not a friend (and fellow participant in the joys of under-age sex) warned him, he was to have been arrested. Here today; gone tomorrow. It’s what Oscar should have done. The Fourth Earl scooted off to foreign parts where, as I later discovered, the pattern of his life continued much as before. The only difference appeared to have been that instead of fucking a string of working-class rent boys in an establishment in Bayswater he was fucking a string of Arab boys in Marrakech. What did he gain? Freedom. What did he lose? Reputation and the pleasure kırklareli escort of sucking a boy’s foreskin. None of this was known at the time, of course. The official story about ‘an accident’ turned out to be a little wide of the truth too. It was kept from me, but when I learned about Marrakech I also learned that an irate Arab father had taken severe exception to the behaviour of the English milord with his son (sons, actually) and had arranged for him to be stabbed in the souk. How did I know this? You will have to wait until we get to that part of the story.) Rivers found a place and we got into the back. The Rolls has tinted windows and we had carefully gone round it one day making sure that we couldn’t see in. So in the lay-by we were safe. Off came my school clothes; off came Rivers’s chauffeur’s uniform; down on my knees I went to make sure his cock was clean enough to penetrate the arse of what was now the peerage; down went Rivers to make sure that the peerage’s arse was sufficiently wet. When all was ready I stretched out on the back seat on my back. “Take me, take me!” I whispered, “ravish the Earl of Inchkeith.” The Earl of Inchkeith enjoyed the attention of what was now his – not his mother’s – driver even more than he had when merely a courtesy Viscount. “It’ll only be a quickie, Dab,” he said, “we don’t have too long.” “15 minutes then,” I said, “surely we can run to that.” Being fucked in a lay-by on the A429 on a wet Tuesday morning in February isn’t the most romantic encounter, but being fucked in the back of a Rolls you technically own adds a certain something. Rivers’s cock did what it always did – pumped me full of hot Rivers spunk. In Rivers’s bed this was allowed to leak out with little ceremony, but on this occasion I would have no opportunity to refresh myself before assuming the mantle of grief I would be expected to display. “You’d better suck it all out,” I said. Rivers agreed happily – this wasn’t a new end to one of our sessions. When his bounty had found its way back into his body (some of it was shared with me, naturally) I reminded him that if the occasion were to have any significance it was not enough for him to be the first person to fuck the Fifth Earl – he would have to suck His Lordship off as well. We shared that bounty too. (For the sake of completeness you’ll want to know about Rivers. He was about 22, I’d guess, with dark hair and brown eyes. His cock – far more important than the colour of his hair or eyes, you’ll agree – was bigger than Guy’s. One day we behaved like naughty schoolboys (which only one of us was) and measured. He went from about 5 inches asleep to a bit over 8. I went from 4 to nearly 7. I was 15 then, so it must have grown since the excitement on the A429.) I realise too, in my excitement to inherit the earldom, that I have omitted to tell you anything about my first term at public school. You must forgive an old man to whom all these things – exciting as they were – happened so long ago. You’ll remember that I determined to present myself as a clean-living English boy of the upper class: no back history, no scandal attaching. I was one of 12 new boys. We were lined up in the Common Room like so many slaves in a market. It took about 10 seconds for me to discover that that was exactly what we were. The Head of House told us that were Pups, and each Pup would have a Trainer. Seven Prefects then joined him and the eight of them sat at a long table with the eleven of us in line facing them. It would have saved a lot of bother had we been told to parade naked – at least that way the Trainers could have seen what they were getting. This, however, was more of a blind auction. Being fairly pretty (as Guy and Rivers had encouraged me to think of myself) I was snapped up quickly. My trainer was Cohen. Cohen was 17, I discovered, and when he led me off to his room to instruct me in whatever Pups were supposed to do it was clear that any idea I might have had of being a good clean-living boy was a waste of time. “Wank, do you?” said Cohen. I nodded. “Answer, Pup, I need to hear you.” “Yes, Cohen.” “Good, because you can wank me when I want.” If Puppish duties included my wanking Cohen I wasn’t going to complain. “How will I know when you want me to wank you?” I asked. Before he could answer I knelt in front of him and looked up in what I hoped was an encouragingly lascivious way. “You’re not new to this, are you?” “No, Cohen. Why don’t I show you how much I learned at my prep school.” It was not a question. So much for my resolution: it had lasted rather less than half an hour. I reached up and unzipped Cohen’s trousers, feeling inside for what lurked therein. Cohen groaned, a sign I interpreted as encouraging. It was quite big, so I murmured that I was impressed. Cohen undid his belt and hauled his trousers down. I gently lifted his pants over his cock which sprang up invitingly. “Nice,” I murmured, “too nice just to wank though,” and I got my lips round it and swirled my tongue round the tip of his cock. There had been only a handful of Jewish boys at prep school, and – it seems unbelievable, but it is true – I was unaware of ritual circumcision. Some boys didn’t have foreskins: that my wide experience kırşehir escort had taught me. But the lack of a foreskin I had merely assumed to be a random variation, like being left-handed (or having red hair). I was thus less familiar with cut cocks than I was with those blessed with nice things to roll your tongue round. Cohen’s cock was hot and hard though, just the way I liked them, and when I put my hands on his arse cheeks to pull him further into my mouth he made no protest. “Good Pup,” he moaned, “you’re a real find.” As this was rather what I was feeling about Cohen I made no response and continued my activity. Cohen became more vocal, and I knew that he was close to coming. I had to make a quick decision. Either I let him come in my mouth, which I was happy about, or I could do something which I had done with Barnes in our last term. Naturally it had been Barnes’s idea (although almost certainly his brother John’s in the first place). One afternoon we were having a sucking session and it was his turn to suck me. After a few minutes he broke off to tell me to pull out and come on his face. “You mean do it onto your face instead of in your mouth?” “Yeah. It’s great. I don’t mind.” Who was I to argue? It sounded pleasantly kinky (not a word I would have used then) so when I felt the surge beginning to be irreversible I pulled back and was amazed to see four good gushes shoot out of my cock onto Barnes’s face. His eyes were closed as the hot spunk hit him. It was the biggest cum I’d had and it left me dazed for a few seconds. Barnes opened his left eye (the right being covered in spunk) and smiled through the mess. “Good, wasn’t it?” “Yeah. What do we do with it?” “John licks it off, but you don’t have to. When I cum on your face I’ll lick mine off though.” Even if I felt unwilling – which I assuredly did not – I could hardly lose face by failing to cleanse his. Anyway, my own spunk wasn’t an unfamiliar taste to me. From that day on Barnes and I always came that way. “John calls it a facial,” he explained. I had to make a decision about Cohen, and I had to make it within seconds. I took my mouth off his cock – he was maybe half a minute away – and looked up from my position at his feet. “You can cum in my mouth or on my face. Which?” “My God, you are a dirty little Pup, aren’t you.” “Yup. I think I’m going to enjoy being your Pup, Cohen. Now choose.” “Mouth this time.” And a minute later I felt his cock swell and pulse jet after jet of Jewish joy into my hungry mouth. I then had another decision. Do I swallow, or do I kiss him, hoping we’ll share. Easy really, swallow this time and instigate a discussion about future arrangements. Cohen eventually allowed his cock to slip out, and that was when I swallowed. “Tasty,” I said, “but it would have been nicer to share. Do you want to share next time?” Cohen, still rather short of breath, said he would think about it. “What about me, Cohen? Do I get to cum?” I’m fairly sure that Cohen’s original plan had been that all that would happen is that his new Pup would politely wank him and go away. But Cohen had had a rather more ecstatic orgasm than he’d been expecting. Cohen didn’t take long to work out that his Pup was sufficiently sexy to make the period of his puphood more rewarding if rewards were to be offered. “Yeah, OK, Pup. Do you want me to wank you.” I nodded. “No, Pup, I need to hear you.” This was what I hoped he’d say. “Cohen, I want you to wank me and give me the biggest cum I’ve ever had, and when my spunk shoots out of my cock because you’ve made it happen, I want to shoot it onto your cock and then suck the whole lot off.” Rather as I expected, Cohen agreed that he would permit things to happen in just this way. It was natural for both of us to take our clothes off at this point and Cohen sat in his armchair, his legs spread apart. I stood between his legs and he took hold of my cock. He wanked me fast and it didn’t take long before his belly and cock were coated with the first of hundreds of loads of spunk that would come their way during my three terms of puphood. When my cock stopped squirting I knelt down and cleaned him up. Naturally his cock was fully hard again by the time it was clean. I looked up. “Again?” “Mmm.” I made an instant decision. “No, Cohen, you’ve got to ask for it too.” Cohen grinned. “Fair enough, Pup. Yes. Suck my cock like a good little Pup, and take it in your mouth again.” He lasted a lot longer that second time – damn nearly quarter of an hour. I was aching by the end, but it was worth it. I swallowed. We didn’t share a mouthful of spunk – his, the first time – until the fifth occasion. He wasn’t a great kisser then, but I must lay modesty aside a tell you that by the end of the third week he was kissing as enthusiastically as I was. And he was calling me Dab too. (And I was calling him Morry, but only in the privacy of his room, of course.) Cohen – Morry – was a Prefect solely on account of his sporting prowess. He was the First XV fly half and in the preceding Summer Term had been a demon slow bowler for the First XI. Sport, however, was where his excellence began and ended. I, in contrast, was neither good at, nor interested in, sport of the kind engaged kızılay escort in at school; but I was very bright. It soon became apparent that there was more I could usefully do for Morry than suck his cock. Morry was very subdued one afternoon when I went to call for our regular session. “What’s up?” I said, for it was obvious that there was something wrong. “I’ve got this fucking essay I have to write for tomorrow and I haven’t a clue what to put.” I was good at writing, so I asked him what the subject was. If it had been History or something he’d done in class I couldn’t help, but it might have been an English essay. “Grimes has set us to write 600 words on some nonsense or other. Hang on, I’ll find the exact words.” He rummaged on his desk. “Yes, here it is. Write 600 words on `Time flies’. What the hell does it mean, Dab?” “Isn’t it obvious, Morry? Time goes by too quickly when we’re having fun, doesn’t it? So for us when we’re in here time flies. I imagine it flies when you’re bowling and skittling the other lot out, right? But in a lesson you hate time drags slowly. But it always goes at exactly the same rate – 60 seconds every minute. So what the essay has to be about is how time seems to drag when things are bad, or boring, but it whistles by when I’m sucking your cock – it’s nice and hard now, I see – but obviously you can’t put that bit in the essay. Does that make sense?” “Yeah. Dab, how come you know that sort of thing?” I had no quick reply other than a facetious one. “I think swallowing spunk for the last 5 years has made my brainy. But telling you all that has drained my brain, so I need a top-up.” Morry grinned. “OK you little fucker, I suppose you’ve earned it.” I decided that the time was propitious for me to make a move I’d been contemplating for a week or two. “How would you like to fuck me?” Morry couldn’t believe his luck, judging from the look on his face and the distinct lurch I detected in the area of interest. “Don’t tell me,” I said, “let me guess.” I paused, giving the appearance of deep thought. “Somewhere between `lots’ and `wow!’ I think.” Morry didn’t say anything, but stood up and drew me towards him. That was the sign that we should kiss – an increasingly pleasing part of our time together – and allow our corks, still chastely entrousered, to rub against each other. Tongues convey lust so efficiently, don’t they, especially between teenaged boys. The gap in age only served to increase Morry’s lust for me, and mine for him. The gap in school status added a thrill of an even greater taboo-breaking than fucking another 13-year-old would have brought. We broke apart, both breathing heavily, and stripped. So far nothing unusual had happened, although each of us knew that a line had been clearly labelled as one about to be crossed. Morry, of course, had had no inkling that he might be invited to fuck his Pup, so it was as well that the Pup had, for the last fortnight, carried a tube of lube in his pocket while visiting on Pup-duty. I went to lie on Morry’s bed and lifted my legs so that my knees were by my ears. “Come on Morry,” I whispered, get a good look. Morry needed no second bidding and his eyes feasted on the first arse he’d had the chance to get a really close look at. “You can touch it, you know. Fingers are welcome.” I don’t think it had entered Morry’s mind that, while it was fine – no, highly desirable – to put your cock into a Pup’s arse it was weird to put your fingers in. It took me several minutes to persuade him that this was a misguided view, and the clincher was that I told him his cock wasn’t going to gain admittance unless his fingers had paved the way. I didn’t feel that getting him to rim me was going to be successful. (Didn’t I tell you that Guy had rimmed me, and taught me a great deal about what tongues could do in that area? Foolish of me.) No, I’d have to rim Morry first – not that that would be an unrewarding pastime. “Have you fucked anyone before?” I whispered. There was no need to whisper – the walls were thick – but whispering conveyed a heightened sense of intimacy. He shook his head. “Well then, you’ll soon be an ex-virgin. So this is a big day.” “What about you? I mean, have you been fucked before?” I grinned an evil grin. “Oh yes, Morry, it’s up there with the hot dinners. And I’ve done my fair share of fucking too. So here’s the deal. You star on the square and the rugger field, in public and in front of your adoring public, and I star in here, in private, teaching you all about time flying and how to give intense pleasure to a Pup by fucking him into the middle of next week.” It was risky, because I didn’t know how touchy he’d be about my assuming a non-Pup role by suggesting teaching. Morry’s cock made the decision for him. “Sure, Dab, sounds good to me. You’re the brainy one and if you know more about fucking then you’re going to have to make sure that I know as much as you do by the end of your Pup year. He was standing in front of me, his cock rigid and wet with precum. I pulled him onto me and we kissed again. I loved the feel of his body, fit, lithe, 17-year-old Morry. I knew that I wanted him to fuck me more than I’d wanted Guy. =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 3 as I expand my sexual partners beyond Morry Cohen. The story is, of course, fiction. Drop me a line at net – that is after you’ve dropped a few quid. ===============================================================================

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