Ever since Mr. Jago too over The New Regency Theatre, he has given free tickets to Professor Litefoot as a friendly gesture. Professor suspected he felt guilty of all the borrowed money he had taken at the slump of his career and was now compensating. It was hardly an issue, but why refuse such nice gifts? Especially if it had the added benefit of making Jago happy.

But as much as the Professor was a regular at his friend's pride and joy, he rarely saw any glimpses of actual work that went into crafting a full show. As a professional man himself (on a very different field, but regardless) Litefoot had sworn he wouldn't try to pry or intervene.

Nothing is as aggravating than unwanted smug opinions from people, who had little usable input for the job. Not once or twice has Litefoot had the urge to smack one or two of the older medical students it his care for giving naïve advices. Young folks, they really do think they know it all.

But that's why Litefoot tried his best to keep away from Jago's territory. He knew his own quirks well enough to beware. He'd just end up starting a silly argument over thespian arts, even though he's just an educated audience member. Mr. Jago, regardless of his melodramatic flair, was exceedingly well experienced in the field. The brawl between a flashy theatre man and an old pathologist would be brutal. Potentially friendship ending!

No, Professor Litefoot was much wiser than to give in to the urge.

That said, this mental divorce from Jago's professional life did lead to the unfortunate side-effect of the Professor simply not knowing what he actually did in his theatre. Of course he had a basic picture of the job description of a fine theatre impresario. He knew that Jago was constantly booking acts, taking care of accounts and paying wages – but what else he exactly did? What was he needed for? Litefoot didn't have a clue. It didn't help either, that Jago spun so many funny anecdotes around a beer table. You couldn't tell which of the stories were only superfluous humour and which weren't.

Well, little did the Professor know, that he was going to get a very good insight on the subject. He was at a rehearsal backstage of a show. It was nothing important, but he had gotten an interesting letter it the mail, talking about some mysterious deaths happening countryside. Somewhere near where his aunt, his father's sister, lived as a matter of fact. Old Agatha was almost ninety-five years old and still as lively as a willow tree... much of Litefoot's pain and suffering though. She was not a kind, nor jolly old grandma. The Professor might be an old man himself, but when aunt Agatha slaps his fingers at the dinner table, he's still a child with excessive shyness upon him.

Anyway, Litefoot had gotten a word telling that something interesting might have been afoot, and for one reason or another, he got too elevated in the moment. He forgot to send a telegram and instead took a prompt jog to the New Regency in hopes of finding his dearest Henry there, ready to take a midday train.

He should have realized they were having a dress rehearsal for weekend new spectacle. Everything inside was such a hullabaloo they didn't even notice the Professor sliding about, looking awkward there in the middle of half-dressed and half-prepped actors and dancing girls. Not at all too soon he realized he had made a quite a silly mistake. He tried to back away to the door, but just at the moment big muscled men begun moving large stage props in and out. He couldn't get past. Then in a sudden swarm of fluffy ballerinas swooped by. Litefoot suddenly found himself being dragged into the ladies dressing room.

How explicitly improper situation indeed! There were, maybe twelve or fourteen girls, all younger that the other, with pale faces and tight little topknots, either stretching their wiry muscles or tying up shoelaces and whatnot. None of them paid any attention to the Professor, like it was a regular occurrence that a strange man was standing at their lair. Though, maybe he shouldn't have been so surprised. Judging by the hassle of the theatre, this was a place that seemed to exist outside of regular everyday social norms. Few of the girls stripped to their underwear right when some composer and playwright passed through. Nobody took a second glance! Litefoot in the other hand kept his eyes gentlemanly on the floor. He was pushed inside a coat rack by the New Regency's own little prima ballerina practicing some fast pirouettes.

But before Litefoot had time to get seriously frustrated and annoyed, he heard Jago stepping in. You can't mistake a characteristic boom of his voice and his self-assured strut. Jago was addressing the girls with such a parental tone it was genuinely startling. The Professor has witnessed how people treat young performers after the show. And though he never assumed Jago to be so coarse, he never expected him to be so… protective? Loving in the most appropriate way possible.

Jago gave girls gentle instructions and was generally more fatherly Litefoot had ever seen him. It was actually rather astonishing! Litefoot hadn't even noticed that one of the girls was crying, the noise and the indifferent attitude of the staff had made him utterly deaf. But once Jago acknowledged her anguish, so seemed everyone else.

"What's the matter, my dear? Has your sassy scoundrel of a brother got himself into a tricksy trouble again?" Jago addressed the girl with thumb under her chin and wiping her tears with a green handkerchief. The girl couldn't have been more than fourteen years old, she was just a collection of pale skin and thin bones. Mr. Jago next to him was like a friendly giant, and the other girls were like his pixies.

"Oh no Mister J, it's nothing like that!" the girl snivelled and shook her big, caramel lolly like head.

"Then what is it my bubbly beeping byrde? Dash it makes me own optics leak to see you in such a sorrowful state."

"I just… oh Mister J, oh my good sir, I think I broke my ankle! See, I fell down the stage, in an accident I swear don't think I can perform. I am so sorry! Please forgive me", said the girl and she was downright hysterical. Litefoot had trouble understanding why, until eavesdropped some of the other girls whispering she'll surely be kicked out now. That she's never been up to their level. Litefoot looked at Jago, trying to depict from his posture if he was indeed going to let her go, for what does a theatre do with a performer who can't perform? But instead Jago looked at her and gave him one of his signature warm smiles and just pinched her wet cheek.

"Dry your tears, you don't want to be a wee infant now do you?" he said playfully, "Now, take my advice and show your leg to a nurse or go to a doctor. Worry not Lil' la belle, ask them to send the payment request to Mr. Henry Gordon Jago at The New Regency Theatre – a dancer's leg is well worth few pennies, wouldn't you think so? Blow your nose and be a good girl."

And just like that the sobbing stopped and no more tears were shed. Even the whispering dried out, as Jago took turns giving every single girl few private words Litefoot couldn't hear. But he guessed it was reassuring and taking initiative.

Jago took a leader's position by emphasizing empathy over envy and bickering. The Professor was impressed, and truth to be told, quite moved how his friend dealt with adolescent jealousy. Had he ever described Jago as "graceful" before? Probably not, pompous and toplofty were more like the Mr. Jago he knew… but by then Litefoot realized how many people were involved with the theatre and how precious it was that Jago was such a people person.

Even Litefoot was able to feel the tension between girls and how it mellowed away, and he has been just by standing somewhere in the middle of coats and frills. Then the ballerinas left like they came, as one big swarming cloud of crinoline. The Professor quickly thought he could finally catch his friend one-on-one.

But for some reason Litefoot didn't say a thing. No, he didn't step out of the coat rack nor made even a teeniest sound. He was staring at Jago, his back to be precise. He watched as he fumbled with a cigarette – Litefoot had never seen him smoking a cigarette, he thought Jago was more of a cigar man. He could see his backside straight, and his face and sides through multiple mirrors in the room. The wordlessness was quite eerie. As long as Litefoot had known Jago he had always, always heard him speaking, he barely ever shut up – but to be fair, Litefoot rarely wanted him to. Jago was an entertaining and sweet person, if not a bit dramatic and prone to bickering just like Litefoot was. But it was all in good fun. The Professor rarely had had friends he genuinely just wanted to listen. He had even grown a taste for beer and pubs just to spend more time with Jago, hearing his stories and to enjoy his company.

Regardless, it was fascinating to look at him like this. Just for a brief moment. Supervising people passing by from one door to another, but otherwise take a momentary rest with tobacco. Blowing away some smoke rings, picking up some clothes from the floor. Arranging bits and pieces of loose make-up equipment. It was oddly enchanting. If Litefoot ever had had feelings for Mr. Jago in a way that could only be described as "secretive", he was feeling them now.

What a man. So full of innocent charm, a charm that reassured vulnerable dancers who depend on him in their livelihoods. He could have been, just as easily, cruel and aggressive, as many people in his position were. No-one respected actors like Mr. Jago did. Who else was willing to pay their underage dancer's medical bills, when he could have just as easily send her back to the street and never worry about it again? Litefoot's heart had never been filled with more affection and admiration.

And then Jago begun to undress himself for a dress change and Litefoot froze completely. The eyes he had easily averted to respect the privacy of the ballerinas in their dressing room, seem to completely fixate on Jago's naked back. It curved with a sensual S-shape. He had a hairy chest, same curly value than the hair on his head. His stomach was big and soft. You could see the muscles underneath though, both on his arm and on the tummy, even if they were under a thick layer of fat.

Jago took time to add some paint on his face. That explained why his eyes look so sparkly and big on the stage, he blackened his lashes! Not at all that unbecoming. Inappropriate in a broad sense, the Professor would have nagged about it, had he kept it on regularly – but what it wasn't, was unattractive.

In hindsight Professor Litefoot realized the worst place to hide in a dressing room was amongst the clothes. As soon as Jago had stripped himself to a just of a pair of unbuttoned gentleman's underwear, he was on the cloth rack, looking for new trousers and a shirt. Needless to say, he was very, very surprised to see his old friend peeking amongst the coats. Litefoot's face was all pink and he was unable to breath properly.

"Oh my good Heavens! Litefoot my man, you're a dirty old geezer!" Jago exclaimed, though surprisingly unconcerned that he was in a very awkward state of undress. As said previously, normal social standards didn't seem to apply inside The New Regency.

"Don't you dare make any quick assumptions! I was just looking for you. No inappropriateness was planned, I assure you", said Litefoot sounding nothing but assuring.

"So, you're just a regular dreaded dancer's dressing room peeping Tom, hmm? I've thrown lads out for lesser reasons!"

"Oh, hush it!"

"Quite a nuisance some lads, don't me saying so. You can never tell which ones will try to sneak a peek under girl's undergarments like it's a sport to behold. I don't tolerate that sort of lewd behaviour in my theatre, not from lads nor from sirs!"

"I didn't come here to ogle your dancing girls Henry. Besides, they didn't seem to be fazed by anything. Dressing and undressing like that. And they saw me, even if you didn't, you, you old blind bat of a man", said Litefoot in a what he hoped was a condescending tone, but maybe it sounded more like deeply embarrassed. His cheeks were hot, so was his neck and hands and stomach… oh, was it really that warm? Or was it that Jago had grabbed his hand in shock when he had seen him and now pulled it closer, making the Professor's blood boil? He could have touched his chest or his bare tummy he wanted to. What was Mr. Jago doing to him? So many inescapable thoughts…

"No, no, I suppose not… " Jago agreed. Why, the Professor would never be preying on girls too young to be even looked at that way. He wasn't a gentleman who had an eye for feminine beauty in the first place.

"I think you've got a far more - let me say it myself - sensationally seasoned and menacingly muskier taste when it comes down to it", continued Jago and quite boldly kept on grasping Litefoot's hand. Like that pressed it on his loins! Unbelievable! Litefoot could have yanked his hand away, but more importantly, he didn't.

"I beg your pardon!" he pipped, but it was such a false rebuttal if there ever was one. Jago kissed him and Litefoot just let him. Which, mind you, might have been the worst kind of thoughtlessness so far. Though it seemed they were somewhat private, they honestly weren't. People were coming and going through, not looking, not staring, just going about their business. It was a downright otherworldly experience. Litefoot couldn't believe Jago would do such a thing amongst witnesses, that he could do it to himself, but to both of them? Didn't he understand the risk involved? Men have been utterly destroyed for far less evidence.

But even more so, Professor Litefoot couldn't believe himself for being swept into the moment without a second thought.

"I think we better move these matters to the office, don't you think? Would you be a dear and designate me some togs to cover my heathen body after I finish old fashioned rumbling romping" said Jago with the most humorous twinkle in his eyes. Litefoot was caught in the middle of being altogether reprehended, and anxiously anticipating.

"Oh Henry… you really are going to be the unravelling of me", he huffed and gathered up some dark trousers and a vest, with a dark-bluish overcoat and a tie.

"I may try my man; oh, dear Heavenly Father, I intend to try", said Jago, and good God one of side offices was not far away. Even if Jago had little shame of walking around practically naked, the professor lacked the needed indecency. He felt much better when they were behind actually closed and locked doors.

"I must truly apologize, for it's imperative we make this a quick affair – the show won't revolve without my careful guidance. Or maybe it will, but the psychological damage will be astronomical," said Jago, lifting up and rearranging things on the writing desk.

"I see", said Litefoot. His tongue was quite dry in his throat.

"You do?"

"I think I've recently gained a better understanding of your duties. And I must say, I am impressed."

"You are? Splendid, splendid, capital even!" laughed Jago as if it was the first time the Professor had given him a compliment. Maybe he didn't give them as often as he should. Jago sat on the edge of the desk and rubbed his big thighs.

"Would you mind picking up a pace?", he said, "All this loitering about is making it difficult to keep my John Thomas vertical."

"Your what?"

"My todger", Jago explained, "My manly knob. The one eyed trooper, the proudest member of the House of Manhood, the happy fatty, the emotive tuna fish, the –"

"Please stop", pleaded Litefoot and what do you know, Mr. Jago did shut his mouth – only to look even more mischievous. He pulled the Professor to his lap and fingered buckles and buttons till he had his prick on his hand. Litefoot took a sharp inhale.

"I'm not a young man, Henry, these are not the best circumstances."

But it seemed like Jago only barely listened. He had devoted his full attention to pry out a full, hard arousal out his best friend. His big hands covered almost all of his cock and his thumb did an absolutely divine twirl on its shaft.

"Ah, well, I guess neither of us is on our prime anymore. Which is a pity, I was quite an upstanding cove, back in my day! Ha, more ways than one!" said Jago, and after a good long draws he stood up, pushed Litefoot to lean on the desk as he lowered himself down to to the floor. Litefoot glanced down. He saw mainly the bad spot on his said, and his lips as he kissed the tip of his cock and sucked it in. What a feeling, what a delirious, soft, mind-numbing feeling!

"Oh, Henry", Litefoot uttered, and was fairly certain that he would have been just as shaky on the legs and panting, even if he had been a young man in his late twenties, and not a man past his sixties been lovingly pleasured by an old, theatre personality. Jago's painted eyes looked kind and husky when he looked up. Litefoot could not have stopped himself from climaxing even if he tried, the eye-contact was too much. He orgasmed right then and there, shooting his hot, sticky semen on Jago's throat. Some of it dripped on his plumb, red lips. It looked so explicit. Not at all tasteful. Illicit, but utterly right. Jago got up to kiss Litefoot hard on the mouth. Litefoot could taste himself on his lips. Salty, icky goo. How can it be so fantastic?

Jago's prick was at it's dripping wet glory, thick and sweetly plumb, twitching. It hung between his legs till he aligned it with Litefoot's inner thigh and rubbed it to stupor. Good old cock to sweaty skin. Not a minute later he was coming, exploding even. He growled and mumbled some very difficult words of amazement for someone in his state. But what did you expect?

Now they were both red hot – Jago quite literally so – and gasping for air. The professor pulled out a handkerchief out of his pocket.

"I love you George, dash it I do."

"And I would love it if we never did this thing again in your office. I think my arse might bruise, and it's all your fault. This desk is worse than the wooden planks they call chairs at the University", said Litefoot and cleaned himself up the best way he could. Luckily he had a comb with him, so he was able to fix his hair and moustache. He could at least pretend to leave the theatre as much of a composed gentleman he came. Jago did a quick review of the clothes the Professor had chosen for him and made a huffing sound – but put them on anyway.

"Your tie is crooked, let me help you with it", said Litefoot after a while. The tie was actually fine, but he just wanted to put his hands on Jago once again. He opened the knot, adjusted the tie and swept his fingers nimble on his jaw.

"George", whispered Jago, but Litefoot put a hand over his mouth.

"I know my dear man, I know", said Litefoot. He wished he could have answered back with the same sentiment, but it was so hard to form the sentence after smothering it so long. Jago took his hand and gave it a kiss and smiled. That was it, his emotional intelligence shining through. The same that made him absolutely marvellous with young upset dancing girls.

"How busy do you think you are with your show, or do you have a moment to spare? I have an interesting case to propose… if you're not too busy, after all", Litefoot continued and though Jago complained about wasting precious time and insisted he couldn't possibly be separated from the production, he still ended up suggesting discussion of the matter over a pint.

FIN