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The Low Road

Page 19

by James Lear


  ‘Nothing is so dangerous as an army that isn’t getting its oats, Ned,’ he said, putting an arm round my shoulder as we strolled across the parade ground, ‘and, unfortunately, not all the soldiers share our excellent good taste in these matters. Life would be so much easier if they’d all just fuck each other, and I could save a fortune in board and lodgings. As it is, I’ve made provision for a dozen or so local women. They’re paid and well housed, and they have the best-looking clients of any whore in the kingdom, as you can see.’ Indeed, I had been thinking just how lucky the women were in their choice of clientele.

  ‘Aren’t you tempted to take care of a few of the men yourself, sir?’ I asked, intrigued by the potential for relations between the ranks.

  ‘Of course!’ Wilmott laughed. ‘But only those who are interested. Plenty of them have... what shall I say? Paddled in those waters. They know where to come if they have the urge. Most of them, however, lack the imagination.’ He sighed. ‘And it’s not in my interests, as the commander of an army of occupation, to upset them.’

  It was difficult to fault his pragmatism. My heart sank, though, when I thought of all those hard cocks going to waste (as I’m afraid I thought) in the hands of a bunch of women. How glad I was to be of the services of that whorehouse I would soon discover.

  We spent the afternoon over tea in the general’s private quarters, and I was disappointed that he didn’t fling me to the floor and ravish me among the silver muffin dishes. ‘No, Ned,’ he said with a smile, as I kept reaching for his cock, ‘we must save ourselves for this evening.’ No questions of mine would elicit further details about the forthcoming entertainment. ‘You will simply have to wait and see. I want it to be a surprise.’

  At around six o’clock the general went to inspect the men, and I was escorted to a small room where luxurious washing facilities had been provided for me. I bathed, availed myself of the various perfumed oils on offer, and dressed in the freshly-pressed shirt and suit that had been left out for me. Inspecting myself in the mirror, I felt every inch the dandy. My shoes had been taken away and cleaned while I soaked in the tub; the leather shone as never before. I watched the general in action on the parade ground beneath me, strolling up and down the uniformed ranks with a friendly word here, a touch on the shoulder or the chin there. The men seemed well disposed towards him. Perhaps, I thought, the English army wasn’t all bad. I began to consider my future in a different light. Of course, for the moment I had completely forgotten the existence of Benoit Lebecque, so susceptible was I to bodily pleasure.

  I had drifted off into a pleasant daydream about my life as an army whore, and looking forward to my next bout with General Wilmott, when my lustful reveries were disturbed by a sharp rap at the door, followed almost immediately by the entrance of a young soldier.

  ‘Message from the general, sir!’

  His words were respectful, but the grin that accompanied them was anything but. His eyes had lighted immediately on the erection that my new suit trousers did little to conceal.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your presence requested in the officers’ mess.’

  ‘Lead on.’ I stood up, making sure that he got a good eyeful. I would take care of this one at a later date, I decided.

  ‘Yes sir!’ The soldier conducted me downstairs and opened a large pair of polished oak doors. All was dark within, with just the glint of candlelight on silverware.

  ‘The young man, sir!’

  Wilmott’s voice sounded from the gloom. ‘Very good, show him in.’

  The soldier stood aside and motioned me inwards, imparting a pinch to my bum as he did so. The door closed behind me.

  At first all I could make out was a multiplicity of candles in glass jars standing in a row about three feet from where I was standing. Each was backed by a tin reflector, directing the golden light straight into my eyes; beyond that, I could make out little except vague shapes.

  ‘Good evening, Ned!’ Wilmott’s voice again, rising above the muted conversation of half a dozen others.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’ I shaded my eyes and peered into the room. There was Wilmott in full dress uniform, his sword strapped on; around him sat five of his fellow officers, most of them younger than him, none of them less than thirty. They whispered in each other’s ears and looked up at me. I seemed to be standing on a raised platform, about two feet above the floor. Combined with the lights, it created a pretty good makeshift theatre. Beyond the party of smoking, laughing, drinking officers, a banquet was laid out on a long mahogany table.

  ‘Ned, I would like to introduce you to the crème de la crème of the Glasgow garrison, who have gathered here tonight to welcome you as a valued new member of our community.’ As he called out their names (I forget them now) each stood and saluted. They were of various heights, builds and colourings, some fair, some dark, some of them bald like Wilmott, others with fine heads of hair falling across their foreheads. One in particular struck me - his name, I think, was Miles - an aristocratic-looking English soldier with floppy, pale-brown hair and a kind expression.

  ‘Now, Ned, I’m afraid I have given you something of a build-up in your absence, and my fellow officers here have accused me of exaggeration in my description of your charms. I wonder if you would care to settle the argument?’

  How could I refuse? ‘Certainly, sir. How would you -?’

  ‘Perhaps if you could entertain us with a little display.’

  I was not quite sure what he meant. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Take your clothes off, boy. Slowly. We would like a show. A performance.’

  The idea of an audience was certainly appealing; the element of humiliation inherent in the situation added spice. One of the officers, a dandified forty-year-old of Mediterranean appearance, struck up a tune at the spinet-a slow, blowsy sounding number.

  At first I stood still, uncertain what to do. But Wilmott was looking up with an encouraging smile, squeezing his crotch in promise of future bliss. I took centre stage and began to dance.

  The audience was appreciative, and regaled me with a running commentary on my performance, mostly relating to the curve of my arse when I turned round, or the volume of my bulge when I faced front. First of all I removed my jacket and unlaced the front of my shirt, making sure that they got a good view of my hard, defined torso, even pulling the fabric aside to show my nipples, which were once again as hard as bullets. The show was going well; a couple of the officers were openly rubbing their crotches.

  I pulled the shirt over my head and danced around for a while, allowing them to appreciate the details of my upper body which showed up well in the golden glow of the candlelight. Next I kicked off my shoes and peeled off the thin cotton socks that had been provided for me; Wilmott snatched one of them up and pressed it to his face. My accompanist, impatient perhaps for what was to come, sped up the pace of his playing.

  There was nothing for it: the trousers had to go next. I inched them down, then up, down, then up, earning myself a barrage of good-natured abuse from the audience who had decided that I was a prick-tease of the most delightful nature. Miles, the handsome creature with the floppy hair, was rubbing the outline of a hard cock that seemed to stretch halfway to his knee.

  Finally I threw the trousers in a corner, and was left in a pair of loose white shorts which did little to restrain my manhood, which was bouncing around inside them and leaving little damp evidences of my excitement all over the front of the garment. I turned round and pulled the back down, revealing my bum - to a gasp from the assembled company. Then I turned and pushed my cock down so that the head, still half sheathed in skin, appeared at the opening of my left leg. One or two of the officers had their hands inside their clothes, blatantly masturbating.

  I was consumed by a desire to be fully naked and at their mercy, and so I whipped off the pants and continued my performance in the nude, bending and thrusting in order to let them see every detail. The music had stopped; the only sound was my feet thumping on the boar
ds, and the heavy breathing of the officers. They had left their chairs and were clustering around the front of the stage, reaching out towards me; at first I evaded their grasp, but soon allowed one or two of them to take liberties with me.

  Wilmott and a couple of his colleague moved a few of the candles from the front of the stage to allow me to sit on the edge; they stood around me, illuminating my body to the maximum, while I stretched out and started to pleasure myself. Hands were all over me, stroking, tweaking and pulling, delving underneath me to find my arse, running over my face and hair. I closed my eyes and settled back for a good wank, which was not of long duration. I came, copiously, to a round of applause from the officers.

  The come was licked from my body by a couple of eager tongues, and I sat up and jumped down on to the floor. I had assumed that we could now proceed to dinner, that I could dress and take a more conventional role in the company. On the contrary: Wilmott took me by the hand and led me over to the table, where a large space had been cleared amidst the dishes and covers.

  ‘Now then, Ned, if you would oblige us.’

  ‘Aren’t we going to have dinner?’

  ‘Oh yes, most certainly.’

  ‘And... what is for dinner?’

  ‘You are, Ned.’

  For one hideous moment I wondered if I had fallen among cannibals, but the general’s kind expression assured me otherwise. The other officers were taking their places round the table, two on each side, Miles at the foot and Wilmott at the head; I was soon lying at full length among them.

  If I was not actually to be the food at this banquet, I was certainly the platter. One of the officers, a rugged-faced veteran who had stripped to the waist, scooped up a handful of butter from a silver dish and started to spread it over my chest. The sensation was delightful, and became even more so when he started using his tongue to lick it off. All around my chest he worked, around my neck, the butter melting and running down my sides as fast as he could eat it.

  Another - the floppy-haired Miles, who I so liked the look of - picked up a jug of whipped cream and, spreading my legs, started to apply it to my arse. It was cold and slippery and absolutely delicious. Of course, I was hard again. His fingers worked the cream all around my crack and into my hole, then his head disappeared and started to sup the melting white liquid. When he surfaced, he had shiny cream all over his face, and his hair was plastered down and dark with the stuff.

  General Wilmott, at my head, took the cover off a dish of asparagus and dangled one above my lips; I extended my tongue to catch a drop of butter hanging from the end, then opened wide and took the whole spear as he dropped it slowly into my mouth. It was delicious; I ate another, and another. Meanwhile Miles was going to town with the cream at my rear end, plastering the entire contents of the jug over my arse and his face. His tongue was finding its way further and further up my chute with each assault.

  As Wilmott fed me asparagus, the rest of the officers were shucking their uniforms and preparing to join the feast. God, they were a handsome crew! Not one of them was saggy; all of them had soldiers’ bodies. That is all I can say. The details are lost to me. Suffice to say that soon I had a prick in each hand and hands all over me.

  Wilmott broke off from feeding duties to pull out his cock, which he dangled above my mouth in place of the vegetable. Once again I licked a drip from the tip and then swallowed the entire spear; with my head bent back over the edge of the table, I had no difficulty taking his whole length down my throat. Soon I was plugged at the other end as well: Miles had replaced tongue with cock, and was fucking me gently as the squishy, slippery cream squirted out of my arse and around his prick with each thrust. It didn’t take him long to come, adding another dollop of cream to the pint or so that had already been piped into me.

  My arse was not left empty for long; fingers were sliding in and out, and then something thick and hard. It was not a cock; I was so surprised by the sensation that I released Wilmott’s dick from my mouth to look south. Two of the other officers - the Italian musician and another, older one - were making selections from a basket of raw vegetables which they were inserting up my anus. A carrot had been the first; now I was enjoying a cucumber. I was slightly alarmed to see a vegetable marrow in the basket.

  The feeling, however, was not unpleasant, and I grasped my knees and spread my legs to give them better access. When I looked back up, Wilmott was spreading chocolate sauce all over his genitals and waving them lasciviously in my face.

  ‘Time for dessert, Ned,’ he said, as I started licking his balls and shaft, savouring the combined sweetness and saltiness of this latest course. My arse was being severely stretched, I knew not by what; I was quite prepared to wrestle free if it became too much. I was relieved when the crudités were replaced by the more familiar feeling of a warm cock inside me, and I glanced down just long enough to register that the Italian had taken his turn.

  By now, of course, we were all absolutely filthy, covered from head to foot in a mêlée of foodstuffs and come. Miles took up a bottle of red wine and poured it all over me, licking as he went; he was hard again, and I was eager to taste his cock. I didn’t have long to wait; the chocolate-coated general was soon wanking himself off in my face, while the Italian was coming up my arse. I took my chance, sat up and launched myself on Miles, who slipped over in a pat of butter and landed on the floor with me on top of him. I lost no time in sliding down to his groin, and swallowed his cock in one go. As I sucked and sucked on this delicious piece of meat, I naturally assumed a kneeling position - and my arse was open once again to assault. Fingers, tongues, vegetables, a silver salt-cellar and a variety of serving implements were tried for size; eventually, of course, every cock in the room was up there pumping out another load of cream.

  When the company was replete, having come at least twice each, I emptied another bottle of wine over my head, shoved a handful of butter up my arse and rounded off the evening by a particularly lascivious wank show. The final load of the evening received a rapturous round of applause, and dinner was over.

  Chapter Thirteen

  How long I might have stayed as chief whore to the boy-lovers of the Glasgow garrison I do not know; as it was, my holiday had an abrupt termination. Wilmott and his fellow revellers, exhausted by the epic of sodomy they had just enjoyed, dozed and drank in the banqueting hall; I felt in need of a bath, and so found my way back to my room. Fortunately, there was no one to observe me; covered in the debris of my recent excesses, I would have presented a pretty spectacle to any onlooker.

  Passing through the general’s quarters I noticed a file of papers that, I was sure, had not been on the desk before. Sleepy and satiated as I was, my curiosity was pricked. The word CONFIDENTIAL only made me more inquisitive. I left the door ajar - any approach would be easy to detect - and opened the file. Of course: it was the translations of the ciphers that I had delivered that morning.

  A letter from General Wade formed the bulk of it; I was amused to discover that the writer had ‘enjoyed many nights with my cock down the young man’s throat’, and suggested that Wilmott do likewise. I scanned further down; rapturous descriptions of ‘his doe-like brown eyes’ and ‘chestnut hair’, ‘his olive skin’ and ‘smooth chest’. Aha, the game was up. Worse was to come; the boy’s name, Peter Rendall. My imposture could not have been more completely uncovered. I had to move fast. I was about to run next door to change into my old clothes, when my eye was caught by a piece of paper pinned to the back of the letter. ‘Movement Order‘ it read, ’for Prisoners in Scotland, April 1751’. There followed a long list of names and destinations. My eye ran down the column and found what it was seeking.

  ‘Lebecque, Benoit, French spy, Leigh House, Carlisle to St Leonard’s Castle, Edinburgh. Priority: immediate.’

  I was about to pocket the paper, but thought better of it; I wanted to leave no clues as to my real business in Glasgow. I dashed next door, wiped myself quickly on one of the general’s shirts (that would have to
suffice as a souvenir), pocketed some money that was left on the washstand and ran downstairs as quietly as I could.

  The front gate was barred and guarded; obviously I would not be leaving the way I came. Someone in the building - the cryptographer Lexington, perhaps - knew of my deception already. The alarm could be raised at any second, and my life over the next. There was no way out that I could see - unless - of course! Skirting the parade ground, I headed with all despatch for the women’s quarters.

  There it was quiet enough; most of the soldiers were in bed. I saw one staggering out, stuffing his cock back into his trousers; he saluted me with an exhausted bonhomie and wove his way across the courtyard. I was about to try my escape through one of the inner doors (it must surely lead to the rear of the building and thence to the outside) when a young woman popped up from behind the front desk where, it seemed, she had been concealed all along. I jumped.

  ‘Sorry to startle you, I was just putting the towels away.’

  ‘That’s quite all right.’

  ‘We’re closed for the night, really.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a guest of the general’s.’

  ‘Oh!’ She smiled. ‘Well I don’t imagine you’ll find much to entertain you here, then.’

  ‘No...’ Looking back through the still-open door, I saw a couple of soldiers walking purposefully towards the banqueting hall. ‘Could I come in, just for a few moments? It’s important.’

  ‘Of course. What’s the matter?’

  God bless her, she didn’t wait for an answer, but instead led me into the inner room and locked the door behind her. I held my finger to my lips and listened. There was nothing. I breathed again.

  ‘Are you in trouble?’

  I looked at her; she had a beautiful, kind face. My experience of women was pitifully limited: the few bloodless spinsters that my mother had employed, Ethel my old nurse, the occasional landlady. My new companion seemed more congenial than any of them: a girl of about my age, height and colouring. She could have passed for my sister.

 

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