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Subject: Last of the Line – Chapter 96 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 96 I’d been in touch with a surveyor a few weeks earlier and had made an appointment to see him at midday. Once the pleasantries were out of the way he opened his file. “Well now, my lord, there’s a lot to be done. I estimate it will cost you a bit over £7,500 and is likely to take several weeks. You’re not in residence, I understand?” I assured him that the house was unoccupied and that any tradesmen wouldn’t have to work round me. He went on to detail plumbing work, electrical work and remedial work to keep the place watertight. By the time we’d finished I’d placed the whole job in his hands – his firm would be happy to act as Project Manager, he suggested, for a fee of 15%. It seemed about right to me – I had some experience of this kind of thing myself, but I didn’t want to do it from 500 miles away. (In the end the work cost just under £9,000 including his fee, and when I went in to examine it I had to agree that it had all been done to a very high standard. I asked him how many different tradesmen had been involved. He consulted his files. “Three plumbers including an apprentice. Four electricians, again with an apprentice. Two roofers. So seven men and two boys.” I gave him £800. “Thar’s a £100 bonus for each man and £50 for each boy. That’s not too little, I hope? They’ve done excellent work.” He shook his head. “Not at all, my lord, that’s very generous. Not many customers would be so generous. I’ll make sure the money is passed along.” All that happened three months later, and I spent a week getting the place how I wanted it.) That afternoon I drove to Inverthrum. Inverthrum which was still filled with memories of Amanda and the brief time we had spent there before … I knew that while it was now mine I couldn’t live there with those memories, and equally I could not part with it. Making it a shrine had seemed the right thing to do while I was still in hospital, but as I began to be more mobile, and more rational, that became more and more the wrong way of dealing with bereavement. Inverthrum would become a place to be lived on, whatever turnings the future might reveal. And so I had planned the renovation and made the appointment with the surveyor. It was now time to look seriously at what was in the house, rather than the house itself. Amanda had taken one look at the kitchen and listed its shortcomings. New stuff was needed – cooker, everything. I went through all the rooms – living room, morning room, another (which I made into a perfect study), dining room, gun room (which I turned into a small library) – and upstairs seven bedrooms as well as an ancient bathroom. I tried to visualise more modern surroundings. The three bedrooms at the back all faced north and I saw no reason to spend money on them – the four other, two in each wing, were more than adequate. In the end, as you shall learn, such economy in 1960 was fortuitous. I went back to Inverness and spent the next day ordering furniture and electrical goods. I asked the shops to liaise with the surveyor and not to make deliveries until he advised them that work was finished, and I told him that I had done so. By late that afternoon I felt I’d done a good couple of days’ work, so I asked the surveyor for the favour of the use of his phone. Spider told me where he’d booked. “Seven o’clock, Bertie. We don’t dress.” I’d quite forgotten formal Mess Dinners. The small restaurant was in an upstairs room near the river and I was the first to arrive. It had only four tables. I chose a seat with the view: Spider and Rob could see it any time. Besides, the seat opposite was a bench and I wanted to see if they sat as close to eat as they had in the howff. As soon as they appeared it was evident that they were regular customers and that the clientele were likely to be of the same persuasion as our table. Kisses were exchanged with the Head Waiter who, it turned out, was also the Proprietor. “It’s very cosy,” said Spider, “Larry runs it with his partner Ken – he’s the chef – and occasionally extra help is drafted in.” I had no idea what that meant, and had no opportunity to ask as Larry ushered them to the table and gave me a warm smile. “I should have greeted you more informally, sir, had I known that Chris’s guest would welcome it.” Why not, I thought, no-one knows me from Adam up here. I got up and allowed myself to be greeted in what was clearly the house style. “You chose this place deliberately, didn’t you, Spider?” “Of course I did, Bertie, and for three reasons. You’ve already worked out that the whole ambience is one of relaxed informality for men like us; two – Ken is a marvel behind the scenes -” and at that moment a boy brought a plate of nibbles and three glasses of sherry. Spider grinned at me. kilis escort “Three,” he said softly, “enjoy the view, Bertie.” The boy, briefed no doubt beforehand by Larry to stand very close to the stranger while putting the plate on the table, placed the sherry glasses reverently beside my side plate. “Would you pass these across please, sir. I can’t quite reach.” Spider was quick off the mark. “I’m sure you can, Wilf, if you try.” Wilf was no stranger to this process, it seemed, because as soon as the green light was given he found it impossible to place the glasses where he wanted them to go without pressing himself against my arm. And I, being at least as quick on the draw as Spider (and, come to that, as Wilf) found myself able to remark that I had enjoyed that. My actual words, as I recall, were something unsubtle about reaching across being hard work. “Yes, sir,” Wilf said with a theatrical sigh, “they work me very hard here,” and he went off – ‘shimmered’ would have been an exaggeration, but only a slight one. “He’s rather sweet, isn’t he?” said Spider, grabbing a nibble and passing the plate to Rob. “Nibbles are his thing, Bertie.” “Meaning?” “Meaning, my friend, that should you wish to know more about young Wilf the management would not stand in your way. He is, as it were, on the house for discerning gentlemen. Though ‘on the house’ should not mean that a small consideration would not be sought.” Rob grinned, all traces of blushing at the discussion of such matters wholly absent. “He’s worth it, Bertie, and -” (here he bent forward to whisper) “- he won’t be 15 much longer.” Just at the wrong moment Larry arrived with menus. ***** Ken’s skills had not been exaggerated – the meal was superb – but you don’t want to hear about the details. Larry had correctly interpreted that I would be paying, and a leather wallet was placed in front of me. Spider was watching as I opened it to see the bill. “Turn it over, Bertie,” he said quietly. I had a quick look at the bill – much less than I had expected – Larry wasn’t charging anything like I would have had to pay in Stoke, never mind London – before turning it over. The message was simple and straightforward. Wilf is highly skilled and available for whatever you might wish. He is 15 and versatile. Larry had tactfully withdrawn while I dealt with the bill. When he came back a minute or two later I smiled and got out my cheque book. “Will a cheque be OK?” “Certainly sir. Should you wish anything further?” It was decision time. During Larry’s brief absence Spider and Rob had insisted that the offer of Wilf, not to beat about the bush, was genuine. “And he’s bloody good,” added Spider, “we had a threesome a couple of months ago.” The threesome had cost £50, and Spider said, “go for it Bertie, he’s worth every penny. Not us, of course, just you.” I wrote out a cheque, adding 15% and gave it to him. “I imagine you would prefer cash for the ‘anything further’.” Larry smiled. “Shall you and Rob be wanting anything further tonight, Chris?” Spider shook his head. “Good night then,” said Larry. The two of them went out with a grin. “Phone me tomorrow, Bertie, let me know you landed safely.” Larry looked a question. “We flew together in the War.” “Ah. That explains why you were so quickly made aware of the little extras we offer.” As the other diners – two couples, both males, all of them in their 50s – had gone Larry sat down opposite me. We were alone. “I assume you’ve done this kind of thing before. Chris called you Bertie and it would make things much easier if you allowed me to call you the same.” I nodded, “better that my formal name isn’t used.” “The note you read is entirely true – Wilf is an accommodating lad and – how shall I put it? – deeply enjoys his work. He is versatile, and he can bring deep joy to you.” “I get your drift, Larry, and I’m keen to meet him properly. How is payment arranged, and where does all this take place?” Larry smiled. “As usual in these matters the cost depends on the service provided and how long you might require. Provided your needs are what might be termed ‘usual’ then he’s yours for the night for £30.” I nodded, “I don’t think anything I want might be termed unusual – not on a first date anyway.” Larry grinned. “Might you become a regular … diner, Bertie?” “Yes, and I might enjoy Ken’s skills too.” “Ah. That certainly comes within our definition of ‘usual’. Let’s go through and you can talk to Wilf.” I handed over £30. Wilf was sitting on a sofa, a glass of wine in front of him. He smiled as Larry and I came in. “Oh good! I liked the look of you right away, sir.” “Not ‘sir’, Wilf, this gentleman is Bertie, and he wants your company till cock crow. I’ll leave you to get to know each other. Before I leave you to Wilf’s tender mercies, Bertie, Ken will be happy to give you breakfast before you leave. Shall we say 8.30?” and he was gone. It was just after 10.30. I – we – had ten hours. I sat beside – close beside – Wilf. The last time I’d had sex with a boy of such tender years had been when Matt had been that age in 1947 – almost 13 years earlier. I was now a widowed man with a son of 3. Despite that I closed my eyes the better to remember the pleasure which would be enjoyed again that night. I felt a hand on my cock. “Mmm, it’s hard, Bertie, kıbrıs escort so’s mine,” and he took my hand and placed it where where I felt something substantial, “let’s not waste time.” We stood up and he took my hand. “Through here,” he whispered, “Larry and Ken sleep upstairs, and this will be just the two of us.” The little room contained everything which was needed – a big bed, a sofa, a bedside table on which were a range of toys and lube. “There’s a bathroom through there,” he said. I went for a piss. When I got back Wilf was lying on the bed naked. Seeing that I was still clothed he got up. “No, let me, Bertie, that’s part of the fun, isn’t it – being slowly revealed to your new boy.” I smiled: Wilf was indeed highly skilled. I wondered how the arrangement had first been made, but Wilf’s fingers did things to me which drove such irrelevancies from my mind. He knelt and slowly – very slowly – drew my zip down. “Mmm, it’s hot in there. I don’t want to burn my fingers. Maybe I’ll cool it down when it’s free,” and he looked up at me, wickedness all over his faun-like face. “That will be nice, Wilf. Your lips look just what’s needed.” Suddenly he stood up; suddenly his lips were on mine; suddenly our tongues were like flame in each other’s mouth; suddenly time stopped; suddenly 13 years fell away. An eternity later we broke apart. “Fuck!” he whispered, “you’re one sexy man, Bertie. Not many of Larry’s friends kiss like that. That can only mean that what’s in here -” and he was kneeling again, releasing my cock from its 13-year prison “- fuck! it’s a beauty!” I had never considered my cock to be anything special: what joy it had brought me was as a result of what it did with, on or in others. Still it was nice to have it given high praise by someone as experienced as Wilf. His fingers undid my belt and my trousers dropped to the floor. Less than a minute later I was naked. Now that it was there, hard, throbbing, my cock was ignored. Wilf pulled me onto the bed whispering, “lie still, Bertie, let me do what I’m good at.” Naturally I obeyed. How much of Wilf’s repertoire was about to be displayed? Before he started be whispered, “I’m a 90% bottom, Bertie and you can fuck me in any orifice you like.” I didn’t intend to make my choice in any hurry, after all, he was mine for the night and blessed not only with two orifices but balls capable of swift replenishment. “What’s the missing 10%?” “You can suck me if you like.” Naturally I did like, but not immediately. His lips teased my nipples. His teeth fastened just tightly enough to reach the pain threshold, but not to cross it. I jack-knifed as he did so. “Too much?” I shook my head. “No, just something new. Don’t stop.” The next time his teeth reached that threshold it was my foreskin he was nipping. I jack-knifed again. “You love it, don’t you Bertie. It’s time I let you join in,” and he knelt over me, his lips welcoming my cock to the tender ministrations of his expert tongue. His arse was there – right in front of me – as no arse had been for far too long. I drew his arse cheeks apart and blew a cold jet onto his rosebud. He sighed and wiggled his arse. At no stage had either of us said anything about what was, or was not, on the menu; he had been described as available for whatever I wanted, so I decided he would stop me if I did anything he didn’t like. I reached over to the lube and drizzled a good stream down his arse crack. He shivered. “I love the cold of that – I know what it means and I love it, Bertie.” In went one finger, and a minute or two later in went fingers two and three. Wilf’s reaction was to increase the intensity of what he was doing to my cock. “I want it in my mouth,” I said, “so leave my cock for a while. You’re young – you can come a lot more often than I can.” Like a well-trained boy he didn’t let my cock leave without a farewell kiss. “See you soon,” I heard him whisper. He turned so that he was straddled across me. I put three fingers back in and he groaned. “I love it when my arse is really full.” “I love it when my mouth has a boy’s cock in it.” Two seconds later he said softly, “we’re both loving it then.” A tiny part of my brain detached itself. I saw a boy – a slim boy with lust all over his face – a boy of 15 with his cock in a man’s mouth – a man of 37 whose lips and tongue had not been visited by such a thing for far too many years – a man who had three fingers deep inside the boy’s arse scrabbling, hunting, teasing, stretching, bringing the boy – “Aaah! Jesus,” as his cock pulsed young spunk vigorously jet after jet onto the hungry tongue, tasting, tasting – another pulse of joy – tasting, swallowing, milking the wilting cock, trying to keep it hard, allowing it to slip softly, spunkily – another oozed drop sucked from a red foreskin – from the lips. Jesus indeed, I thought. “I hope you liked that, Bertie. I’m on fire still with your fingers up my arse – I want your cock in there so badly. When I’ve just come I want to have spunk up my arse to refill me.” A kinky lad, I thought, but one on my wavelength. Was I just as spunk-hungry at his age? For the first time for many years my mind went back to a pair of twins in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean – we’d been only 13, but we were highly experienced, every one of us. Stop living in the past, Bertie, kırıkkale escort the hot monkey beside you has an open arse begging to have you fill him with a noble cock (though he doesn’t know that) and the first of a nightful of spunkings. “On your back then, Wilf, I like to see a boy’s face as I drive him to ecstasy.” He was on his back in an instant, his hands behind his knees pulling them to his ears. Much as he wanted to be fucked I needed to spend time down there getting the flavour of his arse deep into my brain. Tongue, lips, fingers all played intimate games at the doorway to his soul. I buried my face in his crack, inhaling the essence of him, of a boy high on sex, of a boy who would be mine for the night, mine to savour, mine to fuck, mine to lose myself in. “Oh Christ, Bertie, fuck me before I die,” he moaned, “I need it, all of it. Hard. Please.” There was all night for me to spend with my face there. I smiled. “OK, Wilf, you’ve waited long enough,” and I drew my wet cock-head round his arse lips. “Aaah! that’s so hot, now fill me, drill me deep.” In I went, slowly slowly slowly, taking over a minute before I could go no further. He put his arms round my shoulders in an attempt to get more of me in. His legs wound round me. “Now, Bertie, make me yours,” he whispered. I fucked him very slowly that first time. Each time my cock threatened to leave his arse he whimpered – an incredibly erotic sound, odd though it may seem – and each time I drove in hard. His grunt as I did so was equally erotic, and he alternated between whimpering and groaning as I slowly got faster. When I was fucking Matt every night I could sometimes last 30 or 40 minutes, but after so long an absence from a boy’s arse I found my orgasm rapidly approaching after only 10 minutes or so. “Yesss,” I muttered, “soon, Wilf, soon soon … ” and I was there, my spunk pouring out into him again again – he’s whimpering “ah ah ah oh God I … I” – and my cock is still hard, still pulsing and I shoot my last and I fall onto him awash with sweat my cock already wilting, slipping out, a trickle of my spunk following it, my breath, his breath, slowly returning to normal, our heart beats no longer dangerously fast “oh Christ, Bertie, that was …” “mmm, me too, Wilf” and our mouths locked together, our tongues like puppies again, our juices (he had come on his belly shortly before I did and his arse clamping on my cock had carried me to mine) our juices – I reached and gathered some of mine from his arse crack and smeared it on his chest, kissing kissing kissing … I don’t know how long we stayed like that. Eventually he broke off. “I’m hungry, Bertie,” he whispered and before I could think he had shot down and had taken my cock, still spunky and covered in his arse juices, between his lips. “If you’re cleaning me then let me get at you,” I said, “get your arse up here.” I was amazed – as I had been so often before when a boy’s recently-fucked arse was in front of my eyes awaiting attention – how quickly all signs of a vigorous and prolonged pounding vanished. He was red, true, but his arse lips were not swollen and a casual observer would not have inferred a recent penetration. As soon as my tongue touched them, however, his lips reacted, opening in a most welcoming manner to reveal the blood-red inside of his rectum. I’ve never ceased to marvel that such angry-looking flesh is not sensitive to pain in the way that an open wound is; on the contrary all the millions of nerve-endings up a boy’s arse are just waiting to be titillated by tongue, fingers, cock, whatever could be pressed into service. As I titillated, my fingers prising his cheeks apart and his arsehole as open as I could make it, my tongue rolled round the inside still leaking my spunk and the tasty juices that belonged in there. “You’re firing me up nicely down there,” I whispered, “do you want me to cum again?” Silence. That could only mean that he was happy to continue and happy for me to shoot in his mouth. I decided to carry on with what I was doing. A finger or three when I felt I was near ought to make him come on my belly at the same time. Wilf was a skilled cocksucker. His mouth music was accompanied by his fingers stroking my balls and occasionally venturing beyond. I raised my knees to encourage deeper exploration, but he didn’t take the hint – not then anyway. Twice I got near and he immediately took his mouth off my cock while I calmed down – he must have sensed my body beginning to move in anticipation of my coming. After the second time he murmured “next time, Bertie,” and re-applied his lips. OK, I thought, at the rare we’re going that’s about two minutes at the most. I put my two fingers of each hand in as far apart as I could – eliciting a groan and a wiggle of his arse (90% bottoms can communicate so effectively by wiggling) – and blew into him. Another groan, another wiggle. Two fingers now, scrabbling over his prostate mercilessly. I was seconds away … I felt his arse tighten on my fingers as I felt spunk splashing onto my belly … I was there … aaah! filling his mouth, his lips and tongue lashing my cockhead as spunk flew out of me … we clung together, his mouth on my cock, my face buried in his arse crack … his spunk cooling between us, cementing us together. Time stood still. =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 97 as the rest of the night follows. Drop me a line at net – that is after you’ve dropped a few quid. ===============================================================================

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