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Subject: Last of the Line – Chapter 114 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 (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. 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. fty/donate.html =============================================================================== Chapter 114 The last time Piers had stayed with us he had never been in our bedroom, confining his nocturnal activities to Arthur’s bed. Apart from a certain amount of noise neither Ben nor I had any idea of what went on, nor (at the time) had we any wish to. This time was different. As we went up the stairs I asked Piers what he liked. He didn’t say anything until we were inside and the door closed. “How much do you know about Arthur? About him and me, that is?” “Very little,” I said, “he has known about Ben and me since we got together – he was 15 – but none of us ever discussed what we got up to. My father actively seduced me when I was 8 – I thoroughly enjoyed it, by the way – but I made a vow to myself that I would not do the same to Arthur. He has made his own way thorough the jungle of growing up.” Piers laughed. “Very successfully too.” “I hope he and Grace will be as happy as I was with my wife. She was killed in a car crash, you know.” Piers nodded, “I’m sorry.” He paused. “To answer the question, Bertie, I’m a complete bottom. Arthur’s exactly the opposite, so we suited each other as teenagers. He’ll make Grace very happy, and give her hundreds of children. As for me, I like as much cock up me as you and Ben can manage.” “Piers, you’ll fit in perfectly here,” said Ben. “Bertie and I like it both ways. If you’re a total bottom is there any way of being fucked you don’t like?” Piers smiled. “If there is I haven’t found it yet. I like it up the arse and I’m pretty good at throat music too. Why don’t we stop talking about it and let’s see how it works in practice.” Within moments we were all naked. We’d not seen him naked before, so we had no idea about what might be revealed. He’d changed a lot from the 15-year-old who had filed Arthur’s bed, but even as a man of 22 he looked younger than his years. He was wiry and, as we discovered soon afterwards, very supple. When he was being fucked he was able to tuck his ankles behind his neck – something neither of us had seen before. His body was completely hairless, even (again as we were to discover) his arse. Ben and I shaved each other from time to time, but only ever our pubes. The sight (and later the sensation on lips and tongue) of a smooth teenager-like arse meant that we would be dealing with each other’s arses as well in future. (We asked Piers who shaved his arse. No-one, it turned out – he used a cream. It’s always nice to learn new things.) His cock was about 6 inches when hard (as it certainly was then), uncut and inviting. Large low-hanging balls swung enticingly. Ben knelt and held Piers’s scrotum. “Mmm,” murmured Piers. Ben took one of the balls in his mouth, gently rolling his tongue round it. “Mmm.” I moved to kiss Piers, hoping that he would respond. To my delight I found that he was a keen kisser: indeed `keen’ does him no justice. It was like kissing a vacuum cleaner – a vacuum cleaner with a magic tongue of its own. After a few seconds I broke off. “Bed,” I said, “this is too good to carry on standing up.” Ben detached himself and the three of us got onto our bed. “Who’s going to fuck me first?” “That depends how you want it,” I said, “doggy-fashion, on your back, or lowering yourself onto a waiting cock.” “I want all three, but maybe doggy-fashion first.” “That means me,” said Ben, “Bertie insists on seeing faces when he fucks.” Piers got on his hands and knees and we saw for the first time the magic effect of his depilatory cream. “You look about 13 from where I am,” said Ben appreciatively. “All the better to fuck me with.” If Ben was going to spend time doggy-fucking Piers I wasn’t about to absent myself from the scene of the action. I lay on my back at right angles and squirmed under Piers’s belly. His cock fitted very neatly into my mouth: it was almost as though they had been designed for just such a conjunction. He reached under and drew back his foreskin. “Got to give you the full ten-bob’s-worth,” he said. We hadn’t bobs for several years, but the expression was still in use luckily. Mind you, any right-minded cocksucker would gladly have parted with a lot more than 50p for the pleasure Piers’s cock was giving me. His precum leaked constantly and my tongue was in no danger of drying up. Ben had started the process by rimming – who wouldn’t, given such an attractively blank canvas? – and had progressed kilis escort to the insertion of two fingers. That welcome instruction ‘three, four maybe’ had been given and obeyed (four had proved agreeable to both giver and receiver), and warming up having been accomplished to the satisfaction of both Ben had started to fuck. “Aaah!” moaned Piers, “that’s so hot. Fast, Ben, I want to feel I’m being raped.” Piers’s cock, or whatever part of him was on lubrication duty, reacted almost immediately when Ben went for it – precum flowed where it had earlier merely seeped. I knew Ben wouldn’t last long – the combination of a new arse (especially one which, for all practical purposes, was only 13) and 48 hours having passed since his last fuck meant that Piers’s first would soon be over. I remained fastened, but it was increasingly hard as the whole bed was shaking as Ben sniffed the brewery and plunged deeply in. I felt every pulse as the bed shook. Piers groaned, “yesss, yesss, oh God, I can feel … aaah! … every shot,” but his cock delivered nothing beyond precum. When Ben stopped shooting Piers said softly, “take his place, Bertie, I want a long one now. I’ll cum in a couple of minutes.” Ben slipped out and Piers turned onto his back. That was when his suppleness became apparent. When his ankles were in place he grinned up at me. “Do your worst,” he whispered. I pushed in, feeling no resistance. There had been plenty up there before me, and I was briefly worried that my cock wasn’t big enough to do any good. My worry ceased abruptly when Piers contracted muscles somewhere deep inside and I felt as though my cock was in a vice – not too tight, but gripped firmly. Piers saw the surprise on my face. “I may look 13, Bertie, but I’ve learned a trick or two.” “It’s only your arse that looks 13,” said Ben, “from the front I’d say 14½ at least.” When your cock is deep inside someone who had learned the trick of training his arse to simulate the action of a vice, and that person laughs, the effect is indescribable. Ben’s spunk, already plentiful in the upper reaches of Piers’s arse, suddenly sought an exit. My mouth, my arse and my belly were all familiar with Ben’s spunk – its taste, its feel, its scent – but the one bit of me that was a relative stranger to it was my cock. Not any longer. Nor, I should tell you, was Piers’s mouth. Ben was straddling the 14½-year-old, his cock teasing the boy’s lips. I chuckled: it was going to be an interesting weekend. And suddenly I was back in the middle of the Atlantic again. It was over 30 years ago. I wondered where Patrick and Tim were now. Happily in love with somebody, I hoped. Concentrate, Bertie, I told myself. Piers was an active fuckee, by which I mean he did everything but lie back and think of England. I could tell from the sounds Ben was making that lips and tongue were not idle (would he manage to get Ben to cum again?) and his hands were stroking Ben’s hair and caressing his face. I wanted to reach forward and stick a couple of fingers up Ben’s arse, but I resisted the temptation: if he lurched at the unexpected invasion he might end up with his cock bitten off. There would be time for that later – I was going to be fucking Piers a lot longer than Piers was going to have Ben’s cock down his throat. It was almost half an hour before I felt spunk gathering itself in my balls. Piers had cum gloriously on himself ten minutes earlier, and Ben had been onto his prey while it was still shooting out of Piers’s cock. “Share,” I grunted, “I need to keep my strength up.” Piers’s spunk tasted nutty, unlike mine or Ben’s. I felt the circumstances were sufficiently informal for me to ask what Arthur’s had tasted like. “I assume you know.” Piers, whose smile was already of Olympic proportions, smiled even more widely. “Oh I know, Bertie, and soon I’ll tell you, but not yet. I need yours to compare it with.” “Won’t be long then,” I groaned, “I’ll try to get some where you can answer my question.” “I’d like that,” whispered Piers, “I’d like that a lot.” We older men, with a lifetime of careful ejaculation behind us, are better able to control ourselves while cuming than young things like Piers (or, I’m happy to say, Ben). I was therefore able to fire the first two jets of cum deep inside Piers’s arse and whip my cock out and get the fourth and fifth into his mouth. The third painted a line from Piers’s cock up almost to his chin where it was attended to shortly after. “Well?” I said when I’d got my breath back. “That was great. I’ve never had the same cum up my arse and in my mouth. You’re a star, Bertie. Do you really want to know about Arthur? It’s a very kinky thing for a father to ask.” Ben, having finished his self-appointed clean-up, moved his face 18 inches up Piers’s glowing body. “He’s a very kinky father – hadn’t you noticed?” and planted spunk lips on Piers’s. A pause followed: Piers wasn’t going to waste another taste of me. “You taste almost the same,” he said, “Arthur was sweeter, but I only tasted it when we were 15 and everybody’s gets less sweet as the horrors of adolescence spoil things.” “So you like them young like us, Piers?” I said. “Mmm. After Arthur and I stopped when he started to take an interest in girls I opted for younger boys as school – 13, 14, that kind of age. There’s something special about a boy who’s been sexually active for ages when he first makes spunk and sees it shoot from him. If you’re the one who sees it – who licks it up, who tells him what a fantastic cum it was – then he’s your sex fiend pal for ever. Well, not for ever, kıbrıs escort perhaps, but for a good year or two.” I was amused. “But you’re 100% bottom. How does that get you going?” Piers looked at me. “You’re 14. You’ve just shot spunk for the first time – not much, but enough to be sure it’s real – a bigger boy praises you and tells you you’re special. ‘I bet you fancy fucking somebody now you can do it properly’ you’re told. What 14-year-old doesn’t agree and if there’s an arse or a mouth there to hand he’s not going anywhere until the suggestion has been acted on. And there’s a 100% bottom aching for it. Bertie, I had over 40 cocks in me after Arthur, and all of them started at 14. Then I left school, but that’s another story. Are you ready for Round Two, Ben?” ***** Piers’s visit was exhausting for all three of us. In the end it was Ben who fisted him as my hands were just too big. We didn’t spend the whole time in bed, you’ll be relieved to know, and during the more relaxed parts of the two days we learned more about Piers and his interests. He had a job in the City from which it was his ambition to retire before he was 40 with enough put by to live on for the rest of his life. At 22 he felt he was on track. There was no special other in his life – the only one had been Arthur and the end of their sexual relationship had not been traumatic for either of them. “I don’t have any plans to settle down, Bertie, I like what I’m doing now too much.” “What are you doing now, then?” asked Ben. “Right now I’m in the middle of a weekend being fucked by two new guys who fuck me completely differently. I may never see either of you again – though I hope I do, don’t get me wrong – but the likelihood is that there will have been plenty of spunk up me before that happens. Why would I want to stop?” I told him about the facilities at Inverthrum. The sling interested him greatly as it sounded as though careful positioning in it would allow even deeper penetration. Piss, on the other hand, left him cold. When we described Ace and Jack and what Ace in particular had brought to the party his eyes glazed. “Don’t say anything for a moment, either of you. I’m just imagining what 11 inches must feel like.” After a full minute he sighed. “Heaven,” he whispered. “It was,” Ben and I said at the same time. “It’s a play-off,” he explained, “my brain wants boys, young boys, 14, 15 max, but my arse wants inches and the two are rarely found together.” We rang the changes that weekend, and when Piers left he was kind enough to say that he had had a greater variety of sexual penetrations in those two days than he ever remembered. After he had gone Ben and I agreed that while it had been memorable – and, don’t get me wrong, Bertram – highly rewarding, it had also been exhausting. “At least you’re still the right side of thirty, love,” I told Ben, “but for an old bugger like me I’ll need a week to recover.” He came over and put his arms round me. “I’ll be very patient then, because in a week’s time you’ll produce a fountain of astounding volume, and I’ll want to taste every drop.” “I love you,” I said. “Mmm.” We kept in touch with Piers and exchanged Christmas cards for the next few years. He always included a letter about what he had been up to. His firm had sent him to New York a couple of years after the memorable weekend and he had taken to New York like a duck to water. Too readily, alas. When there was no card in 1984 we thought nothing of it – Christmas card lists are not set in stone. It was Arthur who told us that Piers was ill – AIDS, of course – and in those days there was no treatment. Poor Piers died in June 1985, long before his fortieth birthday and the long years of retirement he had promised himself. It made us both take stock of our own lives. We knew that he couldn’t possibly have been infected when he shared our bed in 1978, and his letters had spoken in enthusiastic terms about the bathhouse culture in NYC. Had we been as promiscuous as he had been then we too might have been facing death, but luckily we hadn’t had any sexual partners since Piers. By now, Bertram, (as I write in early 2003) there are treatments for AIDS and although there isn’t a cure at least queers like us don’t die of it any more – well, not as many and not as quickly. Maybe by the time you read this science will have found a cure. ***** Ben and I settled into a quiet life as far as the bedroom was concerned. The Estate occupied much of my time and Ben, though he had no training, was always helpful in asking the difficult questions. Why was I planning this, or why was I not doing that. He made me think, and in explaining things to him I found that I had sometimes overlooked important details. Without Ben, my boy, your wealth would be less than it is. Arthur and Grace had a son – Gavin, your father – who was born in 1980. It will amuse you to know that Gavin reverted to Cunliffe type from an early age. Like his father, like me indeed and like most boys, he found sexual companionship with other boys from school. (We found out later when he told us – as an adult – that his first experience, like mine, had been when he was 8. Unlike mine, however, his father had not featured.) Unlike Arthur Gavin was as queer as the rest of his ancestors, and unashamed about living a public life as a queer man. Only the need to perpetuate the Inchkeith line led to you, my boy! But I’m jumping ahead a little. Arthur was desperately sad about Gavin, and blamed himself, as fathers apparently do when they happen to be heterosexual themselves – I wouldn’t kırıkkale escort know. Grace tried to get him to see sense, to see that in 1999 being queer didn’t carry the stigma that it had done 100, or even 30 years earlier, but Arthur, tragically, found himself in a spiral of despair. He wouldn’t listen to me, regarding Ben and me as responsible in some way (though he never said so in so many words, but it was clear from his distant manner), and in the last years of his life the only contact we had was through Grace. Arthur spent several months in a psychiatric hospital and seemed to recover some of his old cheerfulness, but it didn’t last. He took an overdose of sleeping pills just before Christmas 2002, two months ago. Grace was disconsolate, blaming herself for not keeping a closer eye on his medication. “Why couldn’t I have stopped him?” she kept asking. In the end it was Ben who finally persuaded her that she wasn’t responsible. I was useless to her, and she never found herself able to treat me as she had done before. She cut herself off from Gavin and me completely. ***** Bertram, it’s several years since I write those words above. I’ve been unable to bring myself to add anything until now – it’s August 2013 and I’m 90. Arthur would have been 57 today – perhaps that’s why I’ve found the strength to continue. Be patient with me. Soon after I stopped writing – some time in the summer of 2003, I think – I received a letter from Grace. In it she said that she regretted having blamed me and Ben for Arthur’s death. That was foolish, she said, hoping that I would put it down to her grief. However she wanted to make a clean break from the Cunliffes. She would sell the house she and Arthur had lived in; she would use the money to buy a small cottage in Devon where she had lived as a child; she acknowledged that Gavin, then 22, was old enough to know his own mind and that her duties as a mother were over: she had no wish to see, or hear from, any Cunliffe ever again. Gavin moved in with us, though he maintained a flat in London, put to purposes he never told us, but which we could work out for ourselves. In the ten years since we have been happy enough – all three of us as far as I know. Two months ago Gavin received a phone call from a firm of solicitors in Exeter. Grace had died and they sought instructions. Her Will had stipulated that she was to be buried, but that her only heir – Gavin – was not to be notified until after the burial had taken place. The partner who spoke to him was anxious about what he was doing, but said that after much heart-searching the firm had decided to ignore her wishes to keep Gavin in ignorance of the funeral. Would he wish to give instructions about such matters? Gavin came and talked to me – what did I think he should do? “Phone them back and tell them they did the right thing by speaking to you. Tell them to make the funeral arrangements for one day next week and they we’ll be there. Make an appointment to see them after the funeral.” He came back ten minutes later. “Thank you, Bertie. I wish I could feel sad.” “I know, it’s not easy. But now that she’s gone we ought to be able to forgive her – if Arthur had been stronger none of this would have happened. It’s nobody’s fault, Gavin. We are the people we are. Ben and I are lucky that we found each other, so we settled down. You’re 32 – isn’t there anyone special in your life?” He snorted. “No fear. The kind I want to bed are far too young to settle down with.” “Ah. That was the kind I liked when I was younger – always was until I met this antique. He was 15 then.” Gavin got up. “You’re the lucky one then, but until I find my ideal 15-year-old I’ll just go on hunting him.” When he’s gone Ben and I looked at each other. “Did you know he was into boys?” he said. I shook my head. “Why on earth has he kept it quiet? We could have taught him so many tricks.” ***** Gavin moved out of Uttoxeter permanently a few months later when Grace’s estate was settled. He bought the freehold of the flat he’d been living in and spent his days – and nights – in London. We saw him at Christmas each year, but rarely apart from that. Bertie, my boy, there’s no easy way to tell the next bit of my story. Ben had a heart attack six weeks ago. He was lucky – he was dead before he hit the floor. He was only 61. Gavin’s here looking after me. I don’t suppose it will be for long. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ That was the last thing he wrote. He sounded really low, but then I remembered that the letter he had written to me was written years later. I looked through the file – yes, it was dated June 2019. He must have recovered his spirit after Ben’s death. I wondered what became of Gavin – all I knew was that he escaped from the net closing round his arrest in the boy-brothel and got stabbed for fucking Arab boys in Marrakech. How had I come along? And because he never left anything behind I would never know more. All that was left unread was the mysterious envelope. What had Bertie said? “The other envelope contains some details of a search I made many years ago to find someone who had been very important to me when I was a boy. My search was fruitless, but you – much nearer the relevant age than I was when I made the search – may find it an interesting challenge. If you are successful I hope it brings you as much pleasure as I had at the age of 13. I bet that’s whetted your appetite, Bertram!” I decided I would leave it until the next day. =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 115 as I learn what Bertie had tried to discover. Drop me a line at net – that is after you’ve dropped a few quid. ===============================================================================

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