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This is the first part of a two-part conclusion to this series, after much enquiry from various people along the lines of ‘when are you going to finish the story?’ – I thought I had, but enough people obviously didn’t think so, so here we go…
Many and varied thanks go to Firefly for her constant encouragement and willingness to point out flaws, inconsistencies and continuity problems, every writer on here needs someone like her! Mike for his support and just for being nice about my obviously deranged scribblings, and my dear wife for putting up with my strange hobbies…
If you like it, please vote for it, if you don’t, please tell me why, and as always, the comments that make sense or are self-evidently from sane people are heeded, the loony, sinister and pointlessly rude ones get deleted.
They say the key to telling a story is to know the ending and work backwards along the story ’til you come to the beginning, but where exactly is the beginning? When my five-times great-grandfather decided that a life as a cotton trader in India was too boring and so bought himself a commission in the East India Company army, beginning the family tradition of military service? Does it begin when my great-great-great grandfather scouted a hillside in Natal in 1879, in a place called Isandlwana, spotted a few Zulu’s, and neglected to look over his shoulder at the other 20,000 Zulu warriors bearing down on him and his regiment, the 24th Regiment of Foot? Or is it when my Grandfather went on leave from Brunei and attended that party at the Raffles Hotel in Singapore and so met my grandmother for the first time? Or does it maybe start with my birth in the Queen Elizabeth II Hospital in Woolwich, right next door to my father’s posting at the Woolwich Arsenal? All I can figure out for certain is that true beginnings are as difficult to grasp as smoke, you can go cross-eyed trying to work out the exact point a tale really truly begins, and only the story itself makes sense. All I know is that all the men in my family were soldiers, and all of them had died quite messily as soldiers, which seemed to be the other family tradition. Very depressing.
I was born to Juliette and Lawrence Boscombe, Lieutenant-Colonel Boscombe, 7th (Parachute) Regiment, Royal Horse Artillery, part of 16 Air Assault Brigade and just as gung –ho as all that implies. Wherever the British Army was deployed, whether as part of NATO peacekeeping, or in Northern Ireland, or as part of the EU security forces, there was my dad, in the thick of it.
My brother Gerry was born two years after me, presumably after a burst of friendliness with my mother on the rare occasions when both my parents were in the same country at the same time.
My mother died in childbirth, leaving Gerry and me in the care of assorted au-pairs and nannies while my father protected democracy in various hotspots around the world. Gerry and I never accompanied him when he was on long deployments, so I never really got to know him as a child, even more so for Gerry. The best we had was the latest carer or, as we got older, one of several boarding schools dotted around the country.
My father wasn’t neglectful or anything like that, it was just that he saw his duty to protect Queen and Country as a little more important than bringing up his children, so I spent most of my childhood alone in some boarding school somewhere in the wilds. While I was off in boarding school, Gerry lived with family friends until he too was old enough to go to boarding school. Dad was a good provider, and although we never had a family home, we never lacked for money or things; he was a good father when he managed to forget he was a highly disciplined, single-focussed, military-minded killing machine.
Both Gerry and I took after our mother; we were both blonde, with blue eyes, unlike dad, and while I sometimes looked a little like her, Gerry was the spitting image of our mother, although I needed photographs to see that; I had only the vaguest memories of her. I did get the impression when I actually did meet-up with dad that he somehow blamed Gerry for her death, and as a result, dad had almost nothing to do with him other than provide for him as his responsibility.
As Gerry got older, he began to see it that way too, so he usually avoided dad with the flimsiest of reasons. It eventually got to the point where Gerry had managed to avoid seeing him for almost five years on the trot; he was always “staying with friends” when dad was on leave, and dad never really asked about him.
When I was 11 years old, as the child of a senior officer on deployment, I was sent to a seniors boarding school in Rutland, paid for by the Army, where I met my best and most precious friend, Lucy Manville. We both had the same background; Army brats with the privileges and zero family life that went with it, so we gravitated quite naturally to each other. I found a kindred spirit in Lucy; she hated the army as much as I did, and she hated her father for abandoning her bahis firmaları and her younger brother to follow the drum wherever it led him.
When Lucy and I were 16 and our brothers were 14, both our father’s were killed while on-deployment; Lucy’s father was leading a company in the field against a concentration of Iraqi Republican Guard in a place called Al Zubair in Basra when he stepped on a landmine. He was the most senior British officer killed so far in that whole unholy mess. My dad died when his Chinook helicopter crashed or was shot down, we’ll never know which, in Zakho in Northern Iraq. Thankfully there was no blather about how he died a warrior’s death blah, blah, blah; the thing about having a warrior’s death is, they’re usually messy and you end up dead. Not good.
So there we were, four of us stranded in boarding school, four loose pieces left on the board as legacies and casualties of the Army game; Lucy, her gorgeous younger brother, Charlie, Gerry, and me. Charlie was everything Gerry wasn’t; tall, jet-black curly hair, emerald eyes, spectacularly good-looking, at 14 already more man than most I’d ever seen, and he contrasted sharply with my thin, short, weedy, four-eyed, nondescript little brother.
I’d inherited some of dad’s attitudes toward Gerry; he was almost effeminate, with his fluffy golden hair and his permanently vague expression behind thick pebble glasses, and I hate to admit it, but like dad, I came to blame him for taking my mother away from me. Then came the turning point in our relationship, where I went from disliking him to actively despising him.
One day, when I was just 17, in my last summer holiday before I left school for University, and he was almost 15, I caught him peeking at me.
I was taking a shower at the family friend’s we stayed at when summer holidays rolled around, and I happened to notice a small hole low down in the wall, and a quick movement behind it, a shadow as of someone standing there. I twigged what it was, and I knew there was only one other person in the house at that time, Gerry, so I pretended not to notice; if he really was peeking at me, I would give him something to worry about, no fear!
I moved to the vanity and turned on the taps to mask any sound I might make, and eased the door open, slipping out into the corridor and sneaking up to the room next to the bathroom. Luckily I hadn’t changed yet, so the little mole-rat wasn’t going to get any free eyeful’s today! I looked in, and sure enough, there he was, standing next to the hole in the wall adjoining the bathroom, obviously hoping for an eyeful. He was so intent on his disgusting little hobby that he never even heard or noticed me slip into the room.
I clicked my fingers, and as he snapped upright, a look of confusion on his pasty little face, I kicked him as hard as I could right where it would teach him the hardest lesson. He keeled over, gasping for breath as he clutched himself.
I leaned down and grabbed his ear.
“That’s for perving on me. If I ever catch you doing anything like that again, I’m reporting you to the police, do you understand me, Gerry Boscombe?”
He writhed on the ground.
“I didn’t…I wasn’t…!” he gasped, but I was far too angry to listen to his excuses.
“You make me sick, you nasty little stain. From now on, when I’m in the house, you be somewhere else, or better still, find someone else to spend your holidays with, understand?”
With hindsight, if I’d really paid attention to him, I might have seen that there was no guilt on his face or in his voice, only confusion and innocence, but I was far too busy giving him his marching orders to ever actually listen to him. Was I ever that intolerant and overbearing? I guess I was.
He nodded, so I let go of his head and felt a small sense of satisfaction when it thudded on the floor as he curled up in a ball. A week later he was gone; he’d asked a school-friend if he could stay for the summer, and packed his stuff and gone. I couldn’t care less; as far as I was concerned it was good riddance.
And that, pretty much, was that; I never heard from him again, and certainly never ever gave him a second’s thought.
I went on to university that Autumn, the Slade in London, to study Fine Arts and Interior Design, and managed to completely forget I had a brother; besides, I was working on a plan to nab someone else’s brother while I worked my way through the ranks of the Univ London students who could best meet my standards. I was learning a huge amount in the way of high arousal, deep kink, and low perversion, have no fear, and I had just the man in mind to unleash it all on…
When I heard Charlie Manville had finally left Wellington, all the way off in the wilds of darkest Somerset, and had entered the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, a short drive from where I lived in South-West London, all of that stopped, however. I wanted Charlie; I always had, and now that he was 18, it was time to pounce. So I did. I knew exactly how Lucy felt about him studying to kaçak iddaa be an officer and a gentleman; she thought he was an arse, and frankly, so did I, but I was prepared to forgive a lot because he was so fucking beautiful…
For the next three years, Charlie and I spent nearly every weekend learning just what the human body can inflict on itself in the way of sexual excess. However, although Charlie was never less than ecstatic to see me, and horny enough for a herd of Billy-goats, I soon picked up on the fact it was another blonde entirely that he wanted to be shoving his cannon-barrel of a cock into; his sister, Lucy. He was never crass enough to say so, but a couple of times, in the throes of passion, as he was gunning a bucket-full of spunk into my arse, for instance, he’d forget himself and moan out her name, but he never mentioned it after, and I never brought it up; it was, if not the elephant in the room, at least the grand piano in the bathroom, and we tacitly ignored it. I knew Charlie loved me, but while he was quite obviously in love with Lucy, he was content, and sweet enough, to love me the best he could if he couldn’t have her. As for me, just to know that I had someone as gorgeous and sweet as Charlie Manville all to myself, for now, at least, was more than enough.
Just around the time Charlie was preparing to pass-out as a cadet and go to his regiment as a fully fledged officer and cannon-fodder, grist for the British Army’s relentless mill in that pointless killing-zone, to Lucy’s unabated horror and monumental anger, I received a short note from my pervert little brother.
He was asking me if I wanted to attend his graduation ceremony at Kings College, Cambridge, adding a footnote that I if I didn’t want to come he’d understand. Cambridge? The little snot got into Cambridge? Maybe he had some brains; looking the way he did, he was going to need them if he ever managed to land a girl, although I couldn’t imagine any woman in her right mind wanting a spotty specimen like him. I think it would be true to say I was still a little angry over my belief that he’d been perving on me, but conversely, I was proud of him for doing so well, and also a little guilty for cutting him out of my life so completely for almost seven years now.
To be honest, I was also feeling a little sorry for him; we had no other family, so he’d be alone at his graduation. There’d be no-one to take the mantel-piece picture of him in his Graduation robe, no one to stand next to him as he posed in his robe, and no-one to attend the family reception with. I’d had Lucy, and most of our old crew from school, but Gerry had always been a lonely kid, so I wasn’t even sure he’d have any friends to be there for him.
On the day, I arrived two hours early at the address he’d given me, feeling distinctly uncomfortable at the thought of seeing him again after so many years, guilt warring with pity for him; after all, more than a third of his young life had gone by since I’d kicked him out of mine; I wondered briefly who’d been there for him for all the birthdays and Christmases I’d missed (ignored, an even deeper part of me reminded me, you ignored him), a fresh wash of guilt nearly making me turn around and leave, but I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and knocked. After a few seconds, a tall slender young Asian man wearing just a towel answered the door, and immediately jumped behind it in embarrassment when he saw me standing there.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asked, peering nervously around the door.
I had to suppress a smile at his sweet modesty in this day and age.
“I was looking for Gerry Boscombe….?”
He smiled even more nervously at me, and ducked back behind the door.
“Please, come in, he’s around somewhere…GERRY! VISITOR!” he yelled, closing the door behind me and bolting for his room, clutching his towel tightly with both hands.
I sat down, looking around a typical male student flat, the smell of takeaways and a faint whiff of elderly laundry uppermost in the room.
“OK, who is it, Ramesh, did they give a name…Oh, Lorna…what are you doing here?” said a deep, soft voice behind me.
I turned expecting to see my brother, with a mental picture of the weedy youth I’d kicked so hard, maybe taller, but essentially still the same; instead I saw a gorgeous, beautifully proportioned, golden-skinned, six-foot blonde man, and what a man, his naked torso rippling with muscle, his arms and shoulders sculpted cables of flexing muscles, and a chest like a movie muscle-man, tapering down to a slim, highly defined stomach and waist. Even his face had changed; gone was that vague, slightly effeminate look that had been his habitual expression; with maturity had come eye-catching looks and high cheekbones, all set-off by his bright blonde hair, fabulous blue-violet dolls-eyes, and white, even teeth; fuck me, he was gorgeous! Even as I stared at him, I felt my pussy give a hitch and a twitch, and felt surprised at the reaction; this was my little brother!
“Why didn’t you say kaçak bahis you were coming, Lorna?” he asked, and I stopped nakedly ogling him to answer his question.
“I thought I’d surprise you and give you a present for your graduation.”
I held out his gift, a chunky stainless-steel Breitling Chronomat Evolution watch with the secondary UTC watch built into the bracelet; it was a sufficiently ‘grown-up’ present for a young man of his age, and I thought it might be a way to say sorry for neglecting him for so long, for so little reason. He accepted my gift graciously and grinned broadly, suddenly looking 12 again (from the chin up, at least; everywhere else was all man, and what a man, oh my paws and whiskers, yes!)
“You certainly did that, Lor. I never heard back from you, so I assumed you were still mad at me and you wouldn’t come, but I’m glad you did. Thank you for coming.”
I was trying to control my breathing; for some reason I felt the need to pant, and my heart was hammering as I stared awestruck at this glorious vision of perfect, muscular man-flesh. I had to admit to myself; my brother was a total biscuit, man-child extraordinaire, a banquet of beef beyond fucking belief!
I sat back to catch my breath, my face boiling as I blushed scarlet. I cast around for something to say, something to fill the seven years since I’d last seen hide or hair of him, or even heard his voice.
“I see you’ve grown up!” I quipped, mentally kicking myself for being so inane, me, who prided herself on her mastery of the rapier cut and thrust of repartee and the razor-sharp, biting, witty retort…
Gerry grinned, his blue eyes sparkling as he looked me up and down, giving a quick flick at my high boobs in my slinky dress.
“So have you Lorna, and I have to say, you look even better now than the last time I saw you; only now, you seem to have shrunk; I distinctly remember you being a lot taller than me; and stronger, if that kick was anything to go by!”
I could have curled up in shame at being reminded what I’d done to him; he was only a young teenager; I could have permanently injured him! I started to gabble out an apology, but he just waved it away, instead just grinning at my discomfort, but not in a malicious way.
I stared up at him, and he smiled down at me.
“I was never peeking at you, you know,” he said softly, “I was supposed to feed that idiot cat, I was looking for it in the room next to the shower room when I spotted the hole; I was going to call out to you and warn you, but, well, you know what happened. You never gave me a chance, but you never even stopped to wonder how a teenage boy, a guest in someone-one else’s home, could possibly drill a hole in a solid masonry wall with just a collection of Star Wars figures…! I missed you, Lor…” he whispered
I cringed as I realised what he was saying, but when I looked up, I saw only warmth and understanding in his beautiful blue eyes.
“Pax?” he offered his hand.
“Pax!” I agreed, taking his hand and shaking it once, the boarding-school ritual satisfied.
I just had to know something.
“So Gerry, where did all this,” I waved my hand up and down at him, “where did it all come from? You were such a weedy shrimp in school, how..?” Nice, Lor, subtle…
He sat down, the writhing cables of muscle and tight, cobblestone stomach nearly making me faint with the sight of all that muscular flesh rippling and flexing so tantalizingly close.
“Rowing, Lor, I’m a Blue for my college. I was in the team that won the Boat Race this year.”
I was flabbergasted; my little brother had rowed, and won, the Oxford-Cambridge Boat race? Oh my God, students come from all over the world trying for a place in one of the colleges just so they could go home and say they’d competed in the Boat Race, and he’d actually won it! My heart was suddenly bursting with pride for my little brother. As a Boat Race winner, he was automatically a prospect for the Olympics Sixes.
At least now I could understand where that superb, and I mean superb, physique had come from; rowing is one of the most energy-sapping sports around, requiring truly astounding upper-body strength and endurance, and a champion rower needs to be honed to the peak of physical fitness; I knew this because during my Uni days I’d dated a couple of the Pairs and Diamond Sculls team rowers, and they were built like Gerry. Almost unbidden a thought flashed across my mind; was he as sexually voracious and endlessly energetic as those guys? I dismissed it right away as unnatural, but it lurked there, right on the periphery of my mind…
I mentally compared him to Charlie my Darling, and I have to say, while Charlie was gorgeous, and muscular, and tall and just beautiful, he had a soldier’s physique, a body honed lean and supple for combat; Gerry was something else entirely; barrel-chested, massive shouldered, abdominal muscles like cobblestones, superbly well developed, handsome, and masculine, a body built for huge expenditure of energy and effort, with a level of physical fitness so extreme I couldn’t believe he’d managed it; he’d seemed so detached and disinterested in everything except his collection of Star Wars figures when he was a teenager.
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