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Subject: Last of the Line – Chapter 115 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 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 (and, happily, in the you’ll-get-a-vaccination-pretty-soon one). It was his habit in all his stories published here to be two or three chapters ahead of publication, but right now, thanks to Santa Claus and other elderly fantasists, there’s nothing in the pipeline. If he gets a nasty cough and a temperature he will post 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. Eagle-eyed readers will have noted that worst of authorial sins – the inconsistency of time. Bertie addresses himself directly to “Bertram” long before Dab’s conception. Such egregious errors will be removed from the text on Peter Brown’s PC but alas cannot be expunged in ‘s files. That such things happen is the downside of writing, and publishing, a story as it goes along. Dickens fell into the same trap now and again, which Peter Brown finds somehow comforting. =============================================================================== Chapter 115 A sense of calm descended on us when Rivers returned from delivering Jack to college. We’d agreed it might be fun for him to step from the Rolls on arrival the first time. “After this it’s the electro,” I told him. Hamish settled into a threesome with us and, as I say, things calmed down. Hester kept him busy during the day, and when I spoke to her a few days later she too had noticed that he seemed more relaxed. “He’s a good worker – not gifted like Jack, but he puts the hours in.” I told her that such news as we had had (via zips to Hamish) indicated that he had settled in and was regarded with some awe as having a Rolls Royce. “Mr Rivers was telling me about that. Apparently there was a great to-do when somebody saw the car arrive and they must have thought they were getting a visit from a VIP of some kind. Then, as he put it, ‘this black kid got out and the welcoming party scurried away again sharpish’.” This was just the reaction we’d mischievously hoped for, but it hadn’t occurred to us that there might be unwanted consequences. When I got back inside I told Billy. “Zip him and see if it’s OK,” he said. The zip back half an hour later was brief. – No longer black prince. Forgiven, I think. After dinner the three of us quickly got into the habit of sitting in the library. It was still hot in September, even at 8 o’clock, and the log fire wouldn’t be lit for weeks. Hamish had explored the books and picked out several. He was a fast reader and was devouring Salinger at a rate of knots. He’d had a good look at Bertie’s porn collection. Billy noticed this and when Hamish was embarrassed told him not to be so silly. “We all fuck each other, Hamish, so why worry about being seen reading about it? Read what you like, and if you like what you read – so much the better. If you come across something that you like the sound of don’t for God’s sake keep quiet about it, OK?” Hamish nodded. “Thanks, Billy, I will,” and setting young Mr Caulfield aside for the moment he addressed himself to more immediately uplifting fare. I was pleased to see that adjustment was needed a couple of minutes later. “Better now?” I said, and he grinned. There was no sign of blushing. Billy had finally seen off Widmerpool and was – bravely – attacking C.P.Snow’s 11-iad. “At least there’s one fewer this time,” he said. He had my sympathy – I’d ploughed through them at school and was relieved never to have to do so again. A couple of them were outstanding and another couple OK, but the bulk of them were unmemorable, even only four or five years on. I’d put this moment off long enough. It was time to open Bertie’s envelope. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Dear Bertram, On many occasions in the memoir I’ve written I found myself carried back to a day in June 1936. I was 13 and James and I were on out way back to England on Queen Mary. I can’t remember now how the arrangement was made, but there were two twins, a year older than me, who were available for a fee to enliven an hour or two of males passengers’ tedium as the Atlantic rolled by. Patrick and Tim were their names. Quite why they stuck in my mind I can’t explain – as you know I had had plenty of sex with boys and men in Ottawa – but stick in my mind they certainly did. Maybe it was the sheer joy and carefree-ness of what happened in our stateroom that day; maybe it was because, unlike Nicholas and Francis who were servants, Patrick and Tim were whores, paid by the hour (and worth every penny) – I don’t know. For whatever reason I have never forgotten that day. With this letter you will find how I tried – and failed – to make contact with them again decades later. I hope you may be more successful – not in finding them, because if they are still alive they will be only a few months short of their hundredth birthday – but in maybe finding out more about them, and what kilis escort happened to them after that day in June 1936. Good luck! Bertie: 1 June 2019 ***** Patrick and Tim had been occasional visitors in my memory as a variety of sexual exploits with boys of their age – 14 at the time – warmed my bed over the years. Usually the memory was intense but, as is the way of these things, it was quickly masked by more immediate sensations. However in December 1978 when Arthur’s best man Piers spent a very busy weekend with Ben and me I decided I had to try to make contact with them again. I had celebrated my 56th birthday a week before, and that would make them 57 or so. In a cold English December the idea of a trip to southern California, where Queen Mary had been a floating hotel for many years, seemed attractive, but it was out of the question. Britain still suffered from what were called ‘exchange controls’ which severely limited the amount of money which could be spent abroad, and which made spending any length of time in the USA a practical impossibility. Ben suggested that I try to wangle a House of Lords fact-finding trip but I reminded him that though I was a Member of that august body I had never shown the slightest interest in its doings, and that turning up and asking for a free pass wouldn’t be wise. The idea never went away, however, and the Thatcher government abolished exchange controls a couple of years later. I made arrangements for the two of us to have a week on Queen Mary in October 1981. The details of our holiday aren’t important – it was 45 years since I last spent a week there and inevitably there were many changes. The deck on which James and I had had our stateroom was much the same, but I couldn’t remember our number. Still, I used the elevator in which I had first encountered one of the twins. More important than any of this was a long conversation I had with the Senior Docent on board. He was most interested in the details (highly edited, naturally) of my Atlantic crossing as a boy, and when I told him I wanted to get in touch with ‘the steward who looked after us so well’ he suggested that I should contact Cunard. It seemed that I was not the first ex-passenger to be moved to such enquiry. Was I, I wondered, the first to be motivated in precisely the same way. Ben and I went to Sutter’s Creek after we left Long Beach. Amos and Seth had never described just where the camp had been, but we were able to see for ourselves what life must have been like. As we wandered around I kept my eye out for a grassy knoll, but there wasn’t one to be seen. “Never mind,” said Ben, “it’ll be there somewhere.” As we drove back to San Francisco we were impressed that they had all walked that way dozens of times. I remembered the fateful journey Seth had made with Jacob: could I have done what they did at their age? We are so soft nowadays. I will try to stick to the point – this is, after all, a description of my attempt to find Patrick and Tim. I wrote to Cunard when we got home and about six weeks later I received a reply. It wasn’t helpful. Unless the person I was seeking was a pensioner they maintained no records of former crew. As the twins would then have been around 60 it wasn’t likely that their pensions – if indeed they had any pensions (unlikely if their service was before the War) – had started. I was back to square one. “What if they stayed on during the Wat?” asked Ben, “wasn’t Queen Mary a troopship or something? There must have been crew doing the catering and what-not.” I agreed, but it seemed highly unlikely that lift boys would be needed. “But by 1939 they would have been 17 – old enough to be called up nearly. It’s worth trying.” “Yes, but where? Cunard are no use.” “Try asking a different question – or better, why don’t I ask? I can pretend to be writing a history of Queen Mary’s wartime service.” And that is what he did (though not on Inchkeith-headed writing paper). It was almost three months before a reply came, this time from the Imperial War Museum, to whom Ben’s request had been forwarded. It confirmed that a number of Cunard crew members had served on RMS Queen Mary (and RMS Queen Elizabeth) ‘during hostilities’ but that their names were not known. The ships had been under US control: perhaps Ben might contact the US Navy. This seemed highly unlikely to be of any use. If neither Cunard, as the owner of the vessels and the former employer of crew members, nor the UK’s official custodian of service records had any information it seemed far-fetched to suppose that the Americans would have anything. Nevertheless I was determined not to give up. “There must be someone who knows,” I said, “someone who was around when Queen Mary was taken out of service when the War started.” “Why don’t I write to Cunard again,” said Ben, “and thank them for passing my letter to the Museum. I could say that their reply raised a new line of enquiry – could they put me in touch with the people responsible for converting the ship from a passenger liner to a troopship. There must be records of that, because it must have been a huge job.” Ben’s letter hit gold – or at least we ended up with a name. James Corrigan had been a senior officer from 1936 to 1939 and had overseen the conversion in New York. There was an address in Hampshire. “Over to you, Bertie,” he said with a smile, “let’s hope he’s still alive – he must be 90-odd.” I felt that Mr Corrigan would be more likely to reminisce about events over 40 years earlier in person, rather than in a letter, so I wrote to him saying that kıbrıs escort I had been a passenger before the War, that I had been given his address by Cunard, and that I would be in Hampshire the following week: might I be allowed to call on him? He phoned two days later, intrigued to hear from the Earl of Inchkeith. We agreed that I would call – “may I bring my partner?” – the following Tuesday. “Come at 11 and stay for a bite of lunch.” “He’s alive and well enough to provide lunch,” I told Ben. “Partner indeed.” We drove down to Hampshire on the Monday and stayed overnight at a nice little place in Romsey. Twin beds, but you can’t have everything. At a tactful couple of minutes after 11 I rang James Corrigan’s doorbell. Greetings and sherry were provided and the three of us settled down to talk. I began to explain that I’d been only 13 when we crossed when James stopped me. “May I ask you a question before you go any further?” he said, “it may seem highly impertinent, but if my guess is right it may help things along considerably.” I nodded, “of course.” “Your name triggered memories – what should I call you, by the way: I can’t say ‘your lordship’ all day?” “I’m Bertie.” “James.” “Well, as I say, the name rang a bell, but it must have been your father whom I remember. He would have been around 50 then?” I nodded, “he and I were coming home from Canada.” “There weren’t many members of the aristocracy who – used my services – which is why Inchkeith was familiar. Now, my question. You described Ben in your letter as your partner. Is he more than that?” The Cunliffe blush would have risen at such a question when I was younger, but no longer. “Yes, James, we live together – have done for ten years.” James rubbed his hands. “That makes things much easier,” he said, “now, what is it you want to know?” I described Patrick and Tim, though only in their guise as lift boys. “Elevator boys, we called them,” said James, “but surely there was more to it than that? Your father came to me with a proposition – and I’m guessing that you were a part of that.” We were fencing rather too much and I wanted to get closer to what I wanted – news about, and with luck contact with, Patrick and Tim. I took the plunge. “My father and I spent several hours with Patrick and Tim, and a man whose name I can’t remember. I was 13, they were 14 and I have never forgotten how much I enjoyed what we all did together.” “I was the organiser of such activities,” said James, “but I only met your father. I knew there was a boy involved, and now I’m at last glad to make your acquaintance.” He looked at his watch. “Would it be too early for a celebratory glass of something more special than sherry? I hope so.” Champagne was fetched and James proposed a toast: “Queen Mary, and all the good times with her.” “Amen to that,” I murmured. “Are you still in contact with them – they must be 50 now?” “They’ll be 50 later this year and, yes, we’re still in touch. Tim and Sam – they fell in love before Queen Mary reached Southampton on her first crossing – are at sea most of the time. Sam’s a captain and Tim’s a chief engineer. I think they’re in the Indian Ocean. Patrick – he was the ringleader of my little gang – lives with his Charlie. They beat Tim and Sam to tying the knot by several hundred nautical miles. They run a restaurant – Charlie’s a first-class chef, a trade I’m proud to say I started him on when Queen Mary was requisitioned. All four of them served on her during the War, you know.” He paused, his eyes perhaps, like mine, fixed on memories of boys so many years ago. He came back to the present. “Lunch,” he said suddenly. Over a cold lunch we talked more generally – he was interested in the Inchkeith family, but I didn’t go into too much detail – and the subject gradually reached the slow increase in the tolerance of homosexuals. “Before you two are my age I predict that being gay will be so commonplace that people won’t even bother to remark on it. My late brother was a priest in Liverpool – that’s where Patrick and Tim came from: they were his altar boys – and never accepted his own … weakness.” “James,” said Ben, “Patrick and Tim were 14. When Bertie first encountered me I was 15 and employed as a waiter in a quiet little restaurant in Inverness. My other duties included being fucked by discerning customers. It sounds so like what you and your boys were up to on Queen Mary.” James smiled. “When you wrote to me I did wonder whether I was about to be blackmailed all these years later. I’m glad that I didn’t make some excuse so that you couldn’t visit me.” He pushed his chair back. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to ask you to go now. My doctor requires me to rest for two hours after a meal, and since on this occasion the meal included alcohol I think I’s better obey him strictly. Please forgive me.” We got up, thanked him for his hospitality and his frankness, and shook hands. “It had been a great pleasure,” he said, “you have caused me to remember so much happiness.” As we were driving away Ben suddenly turned to me. “We know all about the boys apart from two things.” “Being?” “Their surname and where they live. Patrick particularly. James said he was the ringleader and if Tim and what’s-his-name are at sea then Patrick’s the one you have to locate.” He was right. “I’ll write him a thank-you letter tomorrow and ask him. Sam, by the way.” There was an evil fairy out there seeking to frustrate me. I wrote to James but received no reply. I thought it strange, but letters went astray occasionally, and it went kırıkkale escort out of my mind – I would write again in a few weeks, I thought. Several weeks later a letter did appear. It was from a firm of solicitors in Winchester. James had died a week after our visit – a stroke, apparently – and the writer had been tasked with dealing with correspondence that had remained unopened. She was sorry to bring me the news, and regretted that the firm had no information about the parties mentioned in my letter. Were there any other matter with which she could help me she assured me that she would do her best. “A bloody dead end,” I said, cross with myself for being so stupid, “poor old James.” “What now?” asked Ben. “There isn’t any ‘now’ – all we know is that two gay men aged 50-odd are running a restaurant somewhere in England.” “Not just England – it could be anywhere.” “If it was abroad I think James would have said so, but I agree, it’s somewhere in this country. How many restaurants are there – a few thousand? And how many of them are run by queers like us? Hundreds. We’re fucked.” I was angry with myself: we’d been so close to knowing. The trail had petered out. Somewhere out there were Patrick and Charlie, but there was no means of discovering them. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Where to start? It was 104 years since the magic day which had stick in Bertie’s mind and nearly 60 years since his lunch with James Corrigan. Everybody involved must have been dead for decades. I couldn’t see any way forward, even with the search tools and the power of the internet. This was before the Electric Wat, when such things still existed. Over dinner I told the others two what I’d discovered and lamented my frustration. Hamish of all people came up with the answer. “Wasn’t there a priest? Your man’s brother? Wouldn’t the parish have a record of baptisms – there can’t be too many twins called Patrick and Timothy born in 1921 or 1922? Where were they from?” “Liverpool.” “Well then, go to Liverpool and find a priest called Corrigan.” “I knew you were brilliant when I first laid eyes on you,” I said, “and I shall give you a special reward tonight.” Hamish grinned. “I’d like that, Dab. Your specials are always special.” Billy laughed. “Can I come too?” “If you’re good,” Hamish and I said at the same moment. Families are like that. “What kind of reward would be the best?” I asked. Without hesitation the answer came, “in the sling. Wet.” I went to the sideboard and brought six beers. “Very well.” “Let’s take some upstairs with us, ” said Hamish, “I’m suddenly feeling horny.” I’d noticed that in the last few weeks Hamish had taken the lead in our sessions more often that he had at first. Perhaps the fact that he was having to do without his Jack had something to do with it. Whatever the reason I found being led by a teenager very stimulating, and by the time the three of us got upstairs to the sling room I had a full erection straining to get out. I saw I was not alone as soon as we stripped off. “Time you were shaved, Hamish, I don’t want hairs in my teeth,” said Billy. “Tomorrow, I promise, Billy. But tonight … let’s see. Dab, I want to pissfuck you. Billy did me a while back and I loved it. Will you let me try?” “Of course. I love it too. Maybe I can accommodate Billy after. Will you get me ready with your fist?” “You bet. And will you pissfuck me at the end?” Our evening was planned, or at least the first hour or so. There was enough beer to get us well beyond an hour, but would our balls manage a prolonged session? Only time would tell. I climbed into the sling with two pints aboard. Hamish bent down and I felt his tongue on my perineum. I closed my eyes and sank into the sensations he was giving me. Billy was standing beside me stroking my face and gently kissing me. “I love you,” I whispered. “Yes, you told me.” I felt a gentle stream of piss on my belly. “There. I love you too.” Hamish didn’t spend long rimming me, knowing that if he fisted me he’d be able to piss up my arse when the need was no longer resistible. I felt cold grease; I felt fingers push it into me; I relaxed as I knew the next ten minutes would be bliss. “Ready?” “Yeah. Come on in.” Hamish’s hands are just the right size – I hope they don’t grow much bigger. I love the big stretch when his knuckles are in my arsehole, and he always holds that position for several seconds as the nerve-endings scream and my brain loves every second of it. “Mmm,” is the signal for him to push slowly all the way in. My bladder can never contain itself once his hand is well inside, and Billy had anticipated the flow. As soon as I felt his lips and tongue on my cockhead I let go – as did he, aiming at my cock. Inevitably most of it splashed onto Hamish where it added to the lubrication so necessary in those parts. “All this piss makes me close too,” he said softly, “but I think I can hold on for two or three minutes.” “Mmm.” His fist reached the turning point and my bladder found itself under pressure from inside. Billy coped all right. As there was nothing up his arse at that point he had more control than I did. Hamish leant over me. “Do you want a prostate job?” I shook my head. “Not this time. I want to feel your cock before I cum. If you’re ready I am.” Hamish gave my deepest insides a couple of farewell nudges before slowly withdrawing. He paused as always at the threshold. “Ah fuck, Hamish, that’s so hot. Now get it all the way in and drown me.” =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 116 as a trip to Liverpool beckons. Drop me a line at net – that is after you’ve dropped a few quid. ===============================================================================

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