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Subject: Last of the Line Chapter 43 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 43 Armed with Bell’s instruction I went to see Fagan after Chapel the next morning. “Mr Bell has sent me to ask that you should instruct me in English church music. I have to go up to Fisher for an interview next month.” Fagan smiled. “And are you up for a choral scholarship? Unlikely, I would think, since you’ve never been in the choir here.” I explained that I had been awarded a Maths scholarship. His smile widened. “I think I detect my colleague’s drift. Very well. What did he actually say?” “That I should ask you to give me an hour a day instructing me – I think these were his words – in an appreciation of English church music.” “And I assume your present knowledge is zero and that you will expect to be able to conduct an informed conversation on the subject in less than a month’s time.” I grinned. “I fear so, Sir.” “Present yourself to me in my room at 4.30 each afternoon, starting today. If you have other commitments it’s up to you to get out of them.” “Thank you, Sir,” and I turned to go. “I have no doubt that our earlier acquaintance is not unconnected with the business in hand, but fear not – my interest, like yours, I infer – is for trebles, not for basses like yourself.” On this occasion I was well outside his door before the red tide engulfed me. So Bell knew I fancied 13-year olds and Fagan knew, and knew that Bell knew. I shook my head. I had been able to enjoy fucking while I was a Pup myself, and now that I had a Pup of my own no-one seemed to be alarmed (the contrary now seemed to be more likely). Stop worrying, Dab, I told myself, just get on with life. Fuck who you can when you can, provided only that he’s as up for it as you are. I had a shorter session than usual with Solly that afternoon. He usually appeared at around 4, whatever games he had been down for being over – and Solly showered (far more important) – by then. As darkness fell the Pups began to gather, or so it might have seemed. Anyway, there he was in my Den, all keen and sparky. “I’ve bad news, Solly,” I said, “we’ve only got 15 minutes today. For the next month you’re going to have to come here earlier as I will have to go at quarter past four.” Time being short none of it was wasted. We were out of our clothes and in bed in well under a minute, and I was in him in well under a minute after that. “Make it one of your fast and kilis escort furious specials, Dab,” he whispered. Naturally I complied. I gave him ten minutes of being hammered – his face showing increasing delight as the heat inside his arse built up – and came deep inside him only a minute or so after his cock had spewed his contribution to the afternoon’s entertainment high up on his chest. I pulled out sooner than either of us wished. “Sorry, Solly, gotta go.” It was the first time that neither of us had dealt with the other’s spunk. I wondered whether Solly’s arse-fragrance would be noticeable to Fagan. Instruction from Fagan was a lot more interesting than I had expected, and by the end of the third week I reckoned I could keep my end up in anything I was likely to be faced with. Fagan’s interests – the musical ones, that is – were very much the earliest and the most recent parts of the curriculum Bell had set out. He was very disparaging about the Victorian era – “all those earnestly dreary hymns, full of words you boys bellow without the faintest idea of what they mean”. I had queried this, and had instantly been invited to explain what ‘consubstantial, co-eternal’ meant. I saw his point. “And the tunes – so lumpy and ordinary.” But Tallis and his contemporaries, and anything written since about 1950 were joys to him. Each afternoon in the fourth week he put something on his musicplayer and made me listen. Then he made me talk about it for 10 minutes. Then we listened again and he picked out what he thought I should have talked about – it was fascinating. I realised what I was missing. “You’ll do,” he said on the last Friday afternoon, “actually you’ll do very well. I’ve given you a hard time, Cunliffe, but you’ve learned a great deal. Just think what a loss you will be to the musical world with your foolish pursuit of mathematics.” “Foolish?” “Yes, dear boy. Music is full of new things every day – new music, new interpretations. Your mathematics is all known already. Pythagoras today is the same as he was a thousand years ago.” I knew that the Fisher dons might have expected me to refute, or better to rebut, such a heresy, but I couldn’t think quickly enough. I think Fagan was slightly disappointed that I let him get away with it. I thanked him. “I’m off to Cambridge on Tuesday.” “In that case, Cunliffe, you have ample time to let me have 1500 words by evening Chapel on Sunday about why my argument about Pythagoras is nonsense.” I grinned: he had caught me. “Yes, Sir, I shall enjoy thinking about it.” “And I, my dear boy, shall enjoy, as I’m sure you will also, thinking about what you might find when you get to Fisher on Tuesday.” (Fisher had written to me a few days after term had started inviting me to interview on 25 February – a Wednesday – and informing me that accommodation was available for two nights, from Tuesday 24. I zipped Edward to suggest that he and Gordon should kıbrıs escort be aware of possible meeting times. A zip came back less than an hour later. “Yum yum” it said.) ***** You mustn’t think that nothing happened during those four weeks apart from my daily get-togethers with Solly and Fagan. Bell was setting me mathematical problems to think about, and twice a week he and I and another scholarship boy (Lightfoot: he was headed for Balliol) had a three-hour session where some of the things we would encounter as undergraduates were explained. The most interesting thing, however, was that one of the other Housemasters invited ten of us to dinner one evening a week. Lightfoot and I were there as were eight others, all aiming for Oxford or Cambridge, but none of them mathematicians. It turned out that this was standard practice in the spring term – the idea being that adult conversation would be enjoyed. The only others I knew apart from Lightfoot were Piers Cavendish and Dugald MacDonald. Every Saturday evening the ten of us would gather to be entertained by Jenson and his wife. With the benefit of old age I wonder what Mrs Jenson made of a bunch of adolescents trying to shine every Saturday night, but if she was bored she showed no sign of it. Indeed it was she who took the conversational lead each week, letting an interesting subject out of its box to be chased round the table. One week it was politics, one week feminism, one week the arts – there was always something new and challenging. As we walked back after each evening Piers, Dugald and I tried to work out what we thought about each issue, and I came to realise that those undergraduate-like sessions were just as important in the growing-up process as the table talk chez Jenson. I wrote my 1500 words for Fagan, a task I thoroughly enjoyed. ***** But you, like me, are keen to get to Cambridge and the pleasures to be enjoyed in Fisher College. When I rolled up at the Porter’s Lodge that Tuesday afternoon there were three envelopes waiting for me. I got my room key and found my room – the gas fire doing its necessary work already – and settled down to read. The Master and Fellows would be delighted to entertain me, as they had before, to pre-dinner drinks and to have me dine with them at High Table on both nights I would be in Cambridge. No great surprise there. I wondered whether there would be other scholarship candidates as well, but there was no indication in the letter. The second letter invited me to present myself for interview at 9.30 the following morning “followed by luncheon”. It would be some interview, I thought, if it was really going to run into lunch. The third letter was brief in the extreme. “See you at Evensong” It did, however, carry a message of great importance, for after “See you at Evensong” the writer – or writers – had added “G “and I’m 13 in May,” added Gordon.” Two 12-year-olds! And with luck they would kırıkkale escort be trebles for at least another 18 months. “Let’s not worry too much then. Come on, Gordon – how do you like it?” Gordon looked perplexed – until that moment choice of how he liked it hadn’t been an issue. He knelt on my bed, his head down and his arse ready. “Do you always get fucked like that?” Gordon said nothing but Edward said they didn’t know there was any other way. “In that case, gentlemen, prepare for your horizons to be stretched as well as your pretty little arses.” Gordon giggled. “I like it with Dab, Edward, I told you it’d be fun.” From the look on his face Edward had never been in any doubt that ‘it’ would have been fun with me. I explained about other positions, making Gordon demonstrate and pointing out the advantages and drawbacks of each. “I want the one where you get in deepest,” said Gordon, “which one’s that?” It was a toss-up between where I placed myself. He would be on his back and I could either fuck him face-to-face, or I could squat over him and lower myself. It took about two seconds to decide that while the latter method worked like a charm with Billy and Jack, the former would – initially at least – be more fun with a 12-year-old I hadn’t fucked before. “On your back, Gordon, and grab hold of your knees. Now get your knees as near your ears as you can.” Edward was on the bed, inches away from his friend. “Christ, Gordon, I can see right up your arse. It’s wide open.” This was nonsense, but it was certainly gently welcoming. I knelt and blew gently. His arse lips twitched. “I hope you’re taking notes, Edward,” I whispered. He grinned and blew me a kiss. Lips followed: more twitching; tongue … finger … second finger (following a demand for “more”) … both fingers in all the way … scrotum, hairless, angel-smooth, in mouth … balls gently moving … cock gently leaking precum, a spider-trail from its tip to his belly … “oh God, Dab, do me” … a request ignored for the moment while fingers played gently stretching him … a good big drop of precum … a raised eyebrow look from Edward, his eyes looking hungrily at the feast growing on Gordon’s belly … a nod from me – “suck him” … fingers scrabbling where a prostate might be growing … arched back … “aaah!” … Edward’s mouth blessed … Edward swallows … fingers out … “oh!” … cock in hard, all the way … “oooh!” … I last less than a minute … I pump six shots deep into this child, his eyes wide open and locked on mine … “oh Jesus, Ed, you’ll never want it on all fours again … I slip out … so does a gallon of Cunliffe’s finest … Edward leaps to the rescue (“can’t have spunk on your bed, Dab”) and when it’s all gone he turns to my cock, and when it’s all clean he turns to Gordon’s cock to finish his earlier task. “Well, Dab, what do we do for an hour?” =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 44 as it’s Edward’s turn – once an interesting hour had passed. Drop me a line at net – that is after you’ve dropped a few quid. ===============================================================================