gay/adult-youth/last-of-the-line/last-of-the-line-79

Date: Thu, 30 Jul 2020 20:42:41 +0100 (BST) From: Peter Brown Subject: Last of the Line Chapter 79 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 79 I don’t want to dwell too much on my 18 months with David, although the time we shared taught me two lessons I have never forgotten. He was the most considerate lover imaginable: always alert to the needs and fears of a much younger partner, albeit an experienced one. I suppose it boiled down to our being equally inventive and skilled in love-making, but our reverting to being (relatively) child and adult in our non-sexual relationship. For example he was more solicitous than I could have hoped about my distress in the face of being an outsider academically. James’s Canadian history lessons seemed absent from the curriculum, whereas basic Latin – which had not been thought important in Canada – eluded me completely. I was thus the constant butt of Latin jibes, none of which I understood (which naturally increased my woe and the pleasure of those aware of what was being said). My being almost bilingual in French, however, was seen as showing off. They are a scary bunch, the English upper classes, when baying in a pack. David held me in his arms while I lamented my fate – something I fear he was called upon to do a great deal in that first term. Miraculously the bullying stopped, or certainly reduced enormously, in the Summer term when it was discovered that I was an exceptionally sneaky bowler of leg-breaks. No-one was more startled by this than I, for cricket, like Latin, had not figured in Ottawa. In later life I have often wondered about this thitherto unexpected attribute, and can only put it down to my being twisted in so many other ways. Not that David or I would have used that word back in 1937. I think he was the first person who was actually kind to me. James cared about me, but did his caring in a somewhat distant manner – unless sex was involved, but in that context kindness (as distinct from thoughtfulness) wasn’t a major factor. Not with me anyway. David fucked me hundreds of times during those 18 months, and I can truthfully say that every occasion was magical. His cock wasn’t the biggest I’d had up me, nor were his ejaculations the most voluminous; his face wasn’t the most beautiful, nor was his body the most stunning; but David as a man, as a lover, as a friend could not have been more wonderful. That was the first lesson – that love renders some things unimportant. And kindness helps too. The holidays – when we were apart, as he lived in London and I had no means of visiting him – were hard. Being re-united at the start of the new term was tricky, because each of us had to conceal our feelings from everyone else. Our first hour together will never fade from my memory. We promised that we would find a way to meet during the long summer holiday, but weeks passed without our finding a way. Inevitably as the memory of a David-less Easter holiday faded and the daily presence of David in my heart (and my arse) filled my mind the long empty desert of July and August receded as a threat. Besides, there was my success in the taking of wickets to cheer me. We did manage to meet in the summer. I persuaded James that as I was 14 I could be trusted to go to London on my own. I had looked up trains from Stoke, and could have six hours before I would have to come back. David and I wrote to each other each week and when I told him that a meeting was possible he write back to say that he would try to find somewhere where we could spend time together. I smiled as I read that. Spending time together indeed! A letter came a few days later in which he told me that he had a plan. “I’ll meet you at Euston,” he wrote, “and we’ll have peace.” The day finally arrived. James had been amused by my ill-concealed excitement as the preceding days had dragged by. “I can only conclude that you are going to be fucked, Bertie,” he said as he drive me to Stoke. My blush confirmed his suspicion, although I couldn’t really think why I blushed at all – it wasn’t as though he and I were strangers to fucking. He then showed why he was father and I son. “Do you love him, this boy you’re going to see? It is a boy, I hope?” “Yes, Papa,” I muttered rather crossly, “he’s at school and he’s 17.” James made no reply. He had tactfully failed to notice that I had not answered the important question. “Well, enjoy yourselves, my boy,” and he smiled as I got out. “I bet there won’t be lobsters for lunch,” he said, and away he went. Those lobsters! that lunch! I’d forgotten Patrick and Tim until that moment: it had been over a year ago. David was there at Euston and, as the whole place was filled with families hugging and embracing, no-one paid the slightest attention to a big brother hugging his younger brother. “Come on,” he said, and led me to a taxi. It took us to somewhere in the West End and, though I have often racked my brains to try to remember a a land-mark or some other guide, I have never known where we were. We went to a little mews where he unlocked the door. “Come on,” he said, “this is my uncle’s place and they are away in Scotland. He lets me have a key so I can water my aunt’s bloody plants.” The plants were indeed of such quantity and luxuriance that watering was evidently a major chore for David. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I watered them this morning. Bed.” Bed was very welcome, for I had refrained from wanking for 6 days in anticipation of today. That day had remained in my memory ever since, not least because it was the day that Hutton was finally out for 364 at the Oval – a fact I discovered on seeing a newspaper placard on the way back to Euston. What passed between David and me was equally record-breaking. During the hours we spent in his uncle’s spare bed there were nine orgasms (I won 5-4). David fucked me quickly – we were both red-hot for each other after several weeks apart – and the heat of his cock inside me (I was impaled on it as that was what we’d worked out made him get it in further than any other position) made me come onto his belly even before he came, and he came fast that first time. He grinned up at me after he’d finished shooting. “That was worth waiting for, eh Bertie?” I nodded, unable to speak. I could not believe one could be so happy. He reached under the bed and produced a plate of sandwiches and two bottles of beer. “Here, these will refresh you for the next one,” he said with the grin that always made me melt. They did. It was only 20 minutes or so after our first explosive cums that I wriggled out of his arms and went down – it was far too hot for bedclothes – and, drawing his foreskin back, put my lips round his cock: the cock which had filled my arse with so much over the preceding months, and my brain and heart with so much more – and worshipped it with my tongue. David was putty in my hands when his cock was in my mouth. He knew, for we had done it countless times, that I wanted his spunk in my mouth, that being the quickest way to my soul. He knew too, as did I, that my lips and tongue would draw it out of him swiftly. My fingers stroked his balls – that always made him come more quickly – and I swirled my tongue ceaselessly over his cock-head pouring pre-cum for me to savour. He groaned, “oh Christ, Bertie, here -” but he got no further. Spunk – his spunk, the best spunk, the spunk of the boy I loved – filled my mouth, sending explosive signals of joy throughout my body. I shot up to where his lips were waiting to share my – our – mouthful of joy. It took several minutes. “I love you, Bertie,” he whispered. The words, though he had said them so often before, thrilled me. I buried my face in his neck, mumbling as I did so that I loved him too. He gently moved my head away from his neck. “I know you do, little one, now lie back and let me show you how much,” and he went down the bed to do for me what I had done for him. His lips took the tip of my cock – hard, insistent, still spunky – between them and firmly but gently drew my foreskin back. He did what he always did – blow a draught of air through pursed lips. The feel of cold air always made another drop of spunk appear and, as he always did, he drew his tongue slowly over the sensitive tip of my cock to gather it. The coldness lasted only a few seconds as a warm mouth seen had my cock – all of it – sheltered from the cold. My cock was about 6 inches long then, but David was able to take all of it. He called it ‘deep-throating’ and it was something no-one before him had ever done to me. I loved the feeling of his spunk on my tongue and the inside of my mouth when he came, but David made it clear from the earliest days of our love-making (even before it was love-making) that he wanted to feel my cock spunking in his throat, so that was what we did that August day in his uncle’s spare bed. He taught me how to fuck his throat very gently (occasionally our early attempts led to severe gagging) and by that day my cock slipped into his throat without difficulty. I held his head gently and started to fuck his throat. We had this to a fine art – longer-lasting fucks would come later – and my second orgasm went down his throat after only a few minutes. He raised his head. “Thanks, Bertie, a big one. You deserve more food and we both need a rest.” When James and I had fucked Patrick and Tim on Queen Mary two years earlier we had lunched on lobsters and strawberries. The smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches and bottles of Bass in bed that day were just as restorative. Not for the first time I wondered what the twins were up to. More of the same probably. But without lobsters. “I need a piss,” I said, “where is it?” David got up. “Come on, I’ll show you.” This was new, I thought. Five minutes later a new frontier had been crossed. The opportunity for what David showed me in the bathroom had never existed at school. I resolved that the opportunity would have to be found somehow when school resumed. I had been about to piss when David whispered ‘stop’. I turned to see why, and he was standing in a shower cabinet. “In here,” he said softly. “But I need to piss,” I said, imagining that we were to shower together. “Yes, in here, Bertie, it’s OK. Come on.” This was interesting. I joined him in the shower and he drew the glass door closed. “You can piss now, but aim it up on me, on my belly.” This was weird, but I didn’t hesitate. Luckily my cock wasn’t hard, so I held it in my hand and aimed. A stream of piss shot out, hitting David’s belly just above his hairs. “Oh God,” he sighed. So it had that effect, had it? Maybe if I pull my foreskin back it’ll gush harder and he’ll like it more. I did; it did; he did. “Oh fuck, Bertie, yes,” and he took my cock out of my hand and aimed it at his own cock, now half-hard. Piss was running down his legs. He looked at me, his eyebrow raised in a question. Without hesitation I nodded: whatever he was questioning I was happy to go along with. He clasped me in a hug, my cock still pissing. Very soon it wasn’t alone. I felt a hot wetness on my belly. I broke out of the hug. David was immediately full of apology, “sorry, sorry.” “Don’t be daft, I love it, but I wanted to see it. Keep on, it’s really sexy.” Piss continued to fly out onto me, to flow over my cock (now hard), my balls, down my legs. A yellow pool surrounded our feet. Our cocks drained they pressed hard into our bellies as we hugged again. “Fucking hell! that was good,” I murmured, “where did you learn that?” “I didn’t learn it anywhere, Bertie, I’ve never done it before, but it seemed a fun thing to do with you. You don’t mind?” “Mind? Of course not. I want more of it, but you’ll need more beer and then you’ll be too drunk to get it up.” Luckily the glass doors prevented us from falling out as we collapsed in giggles. We showered chastely. Back in bed we lay in each other’s arms. I turned to him. “Did I tell you I loved you?” “Mmm, I think so, Bertie.” “Well, just in case you ever forget I’m going to give you something to remember. Lie still.” I went back down to where his cock – nice a clean after its shower – was lying softly against his thigh. I gave it a quick lick as I passed, just to remind it I loved it was well, and David – knowing what was coming – obligingly lifted his legs. “Arse time, is it?” I nodded, not that he could see. I liked arse time, because what I did down there gave David so much pleasure, and that gave me so much pleasure too (as well as the pleasure I would have got from any one else’s arse to which I would be doing the same things). My tongue travelled the length of his arse crack several times, lingering for longer over and around his arse lips on each pass. I blew the cold air thing and he twitched. “Mmm. There’s lube under the bed.” I reached around and found it. Two greased fingers went into him. “Mmm.” A third finger joined them and the long progress to his third orgasm began. Sometimes this way of getting David to shoot was very quick, but we’d evolved a way of making it last a lot longer, and this time I determined would be one of those. Instead of my middle finger attacking his prostate I merely reminded it that I was in the vicinity – a reminder which I would repeat every few minutes, but never lingering long enough to make him come. David groaned – a sound as delightful to me as its cause was to him. Out with the fingers and on with lips and tongue – organs which did not confine their attentions to his arsehole. His cock, his balls, his belly – all received reminders that I – Bertie Cunliffe – loved him and every part of him. The groans were constant. I kept this up for over half an hour before – on my sixth visitation to his prostate – the groans (which meant ‘I’m loving this’) stopped and a sigh (meaning ‘now, Bertie’) led me to give my lover what he needed. Index finger and fourth finger as far apart as possible for maximum stretch, and middle finger rubbing as hard and fast across his prostate – dancing with delight, or so my mind’s eye imagined it – and then … a deep growl as his cock flung spunk almost up to his chin. (Once last term it had hit his face, but on that occasion there had not been two earlier spunkings.) Fingers out as soon as his cock started to fire, Bertie up bed in time to see the full glory of Vesuvius, Bertie burying his mouth in the lava, Bertie’s tongue wasting not a speck, Bertie swallowing, Bertie’s spunky lips fastened in a forge of ecstasy to his lover’s lips, time standing still. A few minutes later Bertie kneeling between David’s legs wanking for all he’s worth and pouring spunk onto a chest so recently cleansed of lava. “God, Bertie, you’re sexy. Seeing you cum after you’ve conjured spunk out of me like that is great.” And David gathers Bertie’s spunk in his hand and transfers the lot to his lips. Like his own recent spunking this wasn’t for sharing. Bertie’s lips joined David’s spunky lips in a return match of the lengthy kiss of a few minutes earlier. It was two o’clock. My train back home was due to leave just after six. We were both exhausted and it was lovely to lie in each other’s arms again. “I’ve set the alarm for 4,” he whispered, “so it’s OK to sleep. Get your strength back for the next one.” I smiled, and snuggled closer. He smelt gorgeous. He smelt mine. We slept. Together. ***** The alarm rang insistently. Warm, contented, I wanted to stay with David for ever. David reached over me to switch it off and as he did so I felt a hard cock press into me. Suddenly all thoughts of staying there for ever left me: I was in bed with the boy I loved and in two hours I would be leaving him for – what, three whole weeks. The insistent cock had magically induced another – mine – and if we had less than 100 minutes then none must be wasted. I looked up at him. “Can I fuck you?” David smiled – I had never asked him that before. Before he could have a chance to deny me – I had no idea whether he would – I rushed on. “You make me feel so wonderful when you fuck me that I want to do the same for you. Will you let me?” “Are you sure?” I nodded. “OK, Bertie, let’s give it a try. Have you fucked anyone before?” I was stumped. Of course I had, many times, but until that moment David had been unaware of quite how considerable my experience had been. Our quiet intimate conversations had never ventured into an investigation of our sex lives before the thunderbolt had hit us – we each knew that we’d been round the track before, but the very large number of my circuits was not something he’d asked about. Honesty, Bertie. “Yes, David, lots of times in Canada, but no-one since we got back to England.” Technically true, since I’d fucked Patrick in the middle of the Atlantic. David grinned, “you’ll be out of practice then.” Mercifully, not unlike riding a bike, my fucking skills had not deserted me since I popped out of Patrick’s arse. I made David resume the position in which I had rimmed him and ran my cock head over his arse lips. “Go on,” he whispered, “I need you in me, Bertie.” To my – and David’s – intense gratification I fucked him for a good ten minutes before my balls heaved themselves out of their much-needed rest and delivered for the fourth time. God! how I ached! But God! how happy I was. “I loved that, Bertie,” he whispered as I collapsed onto his chest. “Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll suck you off,” I muttered. “Mmm.” He took ages as well, and my jaw was sore by the time he came. I was amazed either of us could produce anything, but what shot into my mouth was well worth the effort. We lay together while the minutes ticked by. I kept an eye on the clock. At 5.15 I moved off him. “We’ve got ten minutes,” I said, as brightly as I could, “and I have this terrible urge for a wank. Would you mind terribly if I had one right now?” David smiled that magic smile. “On one condition.” “Oh?” “It goes in my mouth.” “Since you insist,” and I knelt over him and began the final onslaught on my poor tender balls. As I write these words shortly after my 80th birthday in the early days of 2003 I can truthfully say that that day nearly 65 years saw two world records. Len Hutton’s is the more widely known; on no occasion since then have I come 5 times in a day. Mind you it was worth it. David poured me into a taxi – he was pretty whacked himself – and we ignored the taxi driver while we kissed madly all the way to Euston. “You’re a fucking poof,” said the driver to David. “And you’re a rich man,” was the reply as a £1 tip – a huge sum in those days – was added to the 2/6 fare. “He’s right, you know,” I said after the taxi had gone, “and I couldn’t be happier.” And do you know, we kissed again. The whole of the next year at school was spent in a haze of joy; I saw David in the holidays and we made love on several occasions; he left school in July 1939; he volunteered for the RAF almost as soon as war was declared; he was shot down in a Spitfire in August 1940 somewhere over Kent; he failed to bail out. Coping with the loss was devastating. That I could survive it to face a dead future was the second thing he taught me. God bless you, David, my very own fucking poof – the lights went out in my life the day you died. =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 80 as I get ready for a new term at Fisher. Drop me a line at badboi666@btinternet.com – that is after you’ve dropped nifty a few quid. ===============================================================================

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