The Low Road

by James Lear

  I reached across and unbuckled the front of the pouch, lifting the leather flap and sticking my hand in. And what did I find? Not coin, not leather, but warm skin and hair and a half-hard cock. The captain whispered in my ear, ‘Can you not find the money, my dear? It must be in there somewhere. Have a good look.’ I let my hand wander further; it was, indeed, an ingenious arrangement. The sporran seemed to be sewn to the front of the captain’s trousers, which had been cut away to allow his cock and balls to rest inside the leather pouch.

  I let my hand run up and down his stiffening member, executing a pantomime of confusion for the benefit of the porter who, thankfully, was too sleepy to notice much. ‘No, Captain,’ I trilled, ‘there’s nothing in there but my breakfast.’

  He chuckled. ‘Ah, of course, that’s where I put the victuals. Here, in my jacket.’ He rummaged around inside the garment, and found a small piece of silver which he handed to the porter, who stood aside. My arm remained clamped to his ribs.

  ‘Well now, if you would like to precede me, my dear.’

  I trotted up the stairs; there was no getting past the captain, who was bringing up the rear. On the landing he grabbed my arm and fumbled with the key in the lock, pushed me into the room and locked the door behind us. The key, to my despair, he planted in the inner recesses of his tunic.

  ‘Alone at last!’ he said, licking his lips and looking, with that great moustache of his, disturbingly like a wolf. I tried to keep my back to the light. Perhaps I could jump out of the window? I edged across the room and looked out; it was a sheer drop on to some lethal-looking railings.

  ‘What is your name, my dear?’

  ‘Er... Charlotte.’

  ‘Charlotte. Charlotte.’ He rolled the name round on his tongue. ‘What a beautiful name. It suits you. It’s a long time since I have met a girl as lovely, as wonderful, as you.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain.’ I feigned modesty and hid beneath the brim of my bonnet.

  ‘But please, let me see that beautiful face. Ah, the true Scottish complexion. Peaches and cream, my dear, peaches and cream.’ I stepped quickly backwards to avoid the hand held up to chuck my chin.

  ‘Ah, you are shy now, in the morning light. And yet last night ... that was the real you, my dear girl. True passion. True open-mindedness. A willingness to explore. Why, you’re my ideal! There is something truly extraordinary about you. You’re quite unlike other girls!’

  I smiled weakly. How long could I delay the fatal moment?

  ‘Now, help me to undress.’ He struggled out of his jacket (and took good care to kick it, and the key, out of my reach) and waited for my assistance with the rest. He sat, I kneeled and pulled off his boots and socks. He had, I couldn’t help noticing, particularly beautiful feet, high-arched and well-moulded.

  The shirt was a little harder; I took care not to wrench his injured arm. His torso, as I suspected, was furry and powerful. On his right shoulder, just at the top of the arm, he had a tattoo, which intrigued me. It showed, quite clearly, the Stuart coat of arms.

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘Oh... no, sir.’

  ‘Continue.’

  I undid his belt, unbuttoned his fly and pulled down his trousers. As I knew from my previous fumblings in his sporran, he wore nothing underneath. I grabbed them by the bottom of the legs and pulled; he raised himself slightly from the chair, and the garment was off.

  Naked, he was everything I could desire. I cursed the bad luck that had made our liaison so fraught with difficulties. Oh well-I would just have to make the best of a bad job. I grabbed his cock and started sucking.

  ‘No, my dear, that won’t do just now. I must have you as I want you: naked.’

  ‘Oh sir, I can’t...’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I... I’m not... I’m ashamed...’

  ‘You’re a whore, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but my time of the month...’

  ‘It doesn’t concern me. Do as I ask.’

  ‘Please sir, I beg you, don’t make me.’

  ‘I insist. Lay aside this modesty. There is nothing that can shock me, I assure you. Now please. Stand up.’

  There was nothing for it. I stood up and unbuttoned the front of my dress. I kicked off my shoes.

  ‘Leave the stockings on, please.’

  I pulled the dress over my head; fortunately the fashion for petticoats was such that my body was still concealed. Just as well: despite fear, I had a roaring erection. I hesitated. The captain was masturbating with his good hand. Lust made me careless. So: he would discover my secret! Too bad. The last laugh was on him. He had fucked a boy - and not even known!

  I turned my back on him, and undid the fastenings at the back of the petticoat, and let it drop to the floor. It caught for a moment on the fuzzy stubble that was growing back on my arse, then glided down my legs. Now I was naked, apart from the stockings and garter belt, and the absurd hat and false hair on my head. I stood up and gave him a good view of my back, and the arse he had fucked last night.

  ‘Very good. Very good indeed. Now turn round.’

  Well, I could die as well as any man. I grabbed my headgear, whipped it off and discarded it as I turned to face him. There was no longer any mistaking my gender.

  The captain said nothing. His hand stopped playing with his cock, but held it, still erect.

  He spoke calmly. ‘You are a traitor.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And a spy, no doubt.’

  ‘What you will.’

  ‘I should kill you.’ He reached for his sword. My cock fell, but I was not afraid.

  ‘If I die, I die in the service of my country,’ I said, before my voice gave way in the onset of tears. I had no choice but to be silent; I would not betray my fear with a womanly display of crying. For all my recent masquerade, I was still a man of Scotland, and not ashamed to die as such.

  The captain stood up, his sword in his hand. His cock, I noticed, was as stiff as his sword, and he waved both at me.

  We stood facing each other for a long moment, eye to eye. Then I dropped my head, exposing the back of my neck to him.

  ‘Go on. Kill me. Make it quick.’

  I shut my eyes in anticipation of the blade. Instead, I felt a hand on my hand and, in the next second, a tongue seeking my mouth. The captain’s sword crashed on the floor beside him, and we staggered over to the bed in an embrace. His prick was pressing into my belly; my own manhood, which had drooped with fear in the preceding minutes, sprang instantly to attention.

  I could say nothing at first: Captain Robert’s mouth was locked over mine, our tongues doing battle within. At last he broke away and sat up, his thick hairy thighs straddling my waist, pinning me to the bed.

  ‘A fine spy you make, my boy!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You thought you had me fooled, did you not?’

  ‘I -’

  ‘Little Miss Charlotte, indeed. Even in the dark I could tell you were no woman.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘I fucked you. Of course. The masquerade amused me. Do you think I would have done so if you had been a woman in fact, as well as in dress?’

  ‘I thought, as you had ordered a whore for the road -’

  ‘And look what I got!’ He reached round and squeezed my cock, which had lodged between his buttocks. ‘Appearances, my dear Miss Charlotte, are important in our line of work. The masquerade must be complete. Captain Robert, the fearless soldier, the scourge of the Jacobites, is a loyal supporter of the English king, a good fellow and a devil with the ladies. The truth, as you see, is somewhat different.’

  ‘The Stuart tattoo...’

  ‘Indeed. And this’ - he indicated the arm in plaster - ‘a little reminder of the dangers of my profession. I was nearly discovered in the Borders, led astray by a young English soldier who let me take his arse, then tried to betray me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  The captain said nothing, but the terrible look in his eyes to
ld me enough. This was not a man to be trifled with.

  ‘And you, young man, are you a traitor?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  A dozen plausible lies skimmed through my mind, but the captain’s face told me that truth was the only option.

  ‘My name is Charles Gordon. My father was a Jacobite general. I am bound for Edinburgh in search of a French agent named Benoit Lebecque.’

  ‘And what were you doing at the garrison in Glasgow?’

  ‘Looking for information.’

  ‘Dressed as a woman?’

  I blushed. ‘That was the only way I could escape.’

  ‘You weren’t very convincing, Charles.’

  ‘Oh.’ I was disappointed that my brilliant plan had been so easily rumbled.

  ‘The moment you opened your mouth you betrayed yourself. Perhaps a less perceptive man would have been fooled. But then there were other things... The feeling of your mouth upon my prick. The scent of your arse. The slimness of your hips. I know what a boy feels like, Charlie. I know what it’s like to fuck a boy.’

  He climbed off me and, with his good hand, grasped my ankles and raised them in the air. I held myself behind the knees and spread my arse for him. With the stockings and garter belt, my nether parts were prettily framed. Captain Robert stood for a while in admiration, then dropped to his knees and got to work with his mouth. He licked my arse, sucked my balls, tickling me all the while with that great hog’s moustache. He licked up and down the column of my prick and then swallowed it in one go, his whiskers mingling with my wiry red bush. He roughly kneaded my buttocks, which were itching like mad now that the hair was growing back, adding to the inferno that was igniting in my hole. I remembered what he’d said to ‘Miss Charlotte’ outside: ‘I want nothing more than to see you naked and skewered on the end of my prick’. Well, he would get his wish.

  The captain stood up and lifted my arse into position, tearing off my stockings as he did so; they hung in shreds from my ankles. He hawked into his hand and slicked up his cock; my arse was already so juicy that I could have taken him dry. Then he was inside me. Holding on to the garter belt he pulled me towards him, and I slid all the way down his rock-hard cock. God, he was a good fuck! Rough and energetic, just as I like it, but concerned that I should enjoy the ride. He grasped my prick and pinched my tits; something about the sight of his injured arm in its white sling bandage against his dark, hairy chest excited me enormously. My dick was drizzling quantities of fluid over his fingers, which he plastered down the length of my shaft.

  We were both close to coming when he pulled out and bent over a chair, offering me his arse. I had assumed that my great captain was strictly a one-way man, but no: it seemed that he wanted me to take as well as give.

  ‘Come on, Charlie. Give me what that piss-eyed little English bastard couldn’t do. I need a fuck, boy. That’s an order!’

  I knelt behind him and dived into his furry crevice with my tongue, licking the hair into whorls against each cheek. His hole was warm and salty; within moments I was tasting his insides. But the captain was impatient.

  ‘Please, Charlie, give me your cock. I need it.’

  I was happy to be playing the man again; my recent excursion into womanhood fuelled the fires of my lust, and I fucked Captain Robert as hard as he could wish. I took him over the chair, I had him face down on the floor, and I finished with him on his back, his legs wrapped round me and our mouths locked together as I filled his arse. The captain had come sometime during the fuck, without touching himself; I suppose that the friction between our stomachs had been enough to do the trick. When we parted, we were both coated with his sperm.

  I helped the captain to wash, then we retired to bed; after the events of the night, we were both tired. We must have slept for a few hours; when I awoke, disturbed by a sound in the room, the sun was well over the zenith and was streaming straight through the west-facing window, casting a latticework of shadows on the wall opposite. I was certain that I had heard a click and a knock. Mindful of the captain’s parlous position in Scotland (and indeed my own) I was wary of sabotage. But I heard nothing more, and turned to more interesting matters.

  The captain was still asleep beside me. Throughout my sexual career, I have always been fascinated by the sleeping male. It is, I suppose, something to do with the combination of strength and vulnerability that excites me. Captain Robert, with his powerful body and his broken arm, looked particularly striking as he lay against the white sheets, his mouth slightly open, his good arm crooked behind his head so that the biceps swelled outwards in a casual display of force. I could not resist it; I carefully peeled the sheet back to reveal his great hairy torso, the dense bush at his groin, then pushed the sheet down over his legs until his full nakedness was revealed to me.

  For a while I was content simply to gaze, but soon I wanted more. His cock was half erect; I hoped he was dreaming of me. Carefully, I moved down the bed and kissed it; it stirred and swelled a little. I kissed again, marvelling at the smoothness of the skin in contrast to the roughness of the hair all around. Then I opened my mouth and drew him inside; I love to feel a man grow to full hardness between my lips. Soon he had done just that, and I had woken him in the process; one lazy hand was running through my hair as I began to suck him in good earnest.

  I was just picking up the pace to pleasure Captain Robert to the best of my mouth’s ability, when again I heard a knocking from somewhere close at hand. The captain had heard it as well; he was up and alert in a trice, his wet hard cock swinging between his legs like a weapon. He motioned me to be silent, picked up his sword from the floor and leapt across the room. It all happened fast; he grabbed the door of the wardrobe, reached inside and within a split second had pulled forth the cowering figure of the porter, who sprawled on the floor at his sword’s point.

  ‘A spy! Die!’

  ‘No sir, I beg you!’ gibbered the porter. I realised then that his trousers were open at the fly and his cock, a monstrous fat thing, was hanging out.

  ‘Say your prayers, scum,’ hissed the captain, pressing the point of his sword into the porter’s neck. The poor man closed his eyes in terror; I looked up and saw Captain Robert smile and wink at me.

  ‘Tell me who sent you, spy!’ he demanded, standing over the terrified man (who, I couldn’t help noticing, sneaked a few glances at his captor’s great prick despite the fact that a deadlier weapon was at his throat).

  ‘Nobody... I... I came in to change your linen, sir... I didn’t mean -’

  ‘What?’ roared the captain in mock fury. ‘You lie!’

  ‘No, sir! I swear on my mother’s life!’ The poor man was trembling; his prick had shrunk to the size of an acorn.

  ‘Then what were you doing in the cupboard?’

  ‘I came in and I saw the young... er... the young gentleman in bed with you and I was... surprised, sir.’ Well he might be; when we had checked in, I was a young lady. ‘And then when he awoke I was afraid, and I hid in the cupboard, and, and -’

  ‘And spied on us!’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘And what did you see, dog?’ Captain Robert was enjoying himself, I could tell.

  ‘I don’t know, sir... I saw the young... er... gentleman... touching you down there, sir...’

  ‘You watched him sucking my prick, did you?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And what did you think about that? Hmm? Tell me?’

  ‘I thought it was strange, sir.’

  ‘Never seen anything like it before, I suppose?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘But not so very disgusting, was it.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Not so strange that it didn’t make you want to wank, is that it?’ The captain lifted the porter’s shrivelled cock on the point of his sword.

  ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir.’ The poor man was terrified that he was about to lose his manhood; his persecutor was deftly playing with it with the bl
ade’s end, pushing it from side to side, lifting up the scrotum, running the tip of the sword down towards the porter’s arse.

  ‘We don’t like spies, do we, Miss Charlotte?’

  ‘No, Captain.’

  ‘What do we do with them?’

  ‘We punish them, Captain.’

  ‘And how shall we punish this one, my dear? You must decide.’ God, he was a cruel bastard; the poor man looked ready to shit his breeches. But I was enjoying the perversity of the game.

  The porter was not a bad-looking creature-a little on the stocky side, as if he had spent too long sampling the delights of the kitchen, but handsome enough, with a slightly dim-witted expression. I remembered that his prick, although it was tiny now, had swollen to prodigious proportions when he had tumbled out of his hiding place.

  ‘Well, Captain,’ I said, as if making a serious judicial decision, ‘I think the normal punishment under these conditions would be appropriate. Prisoner!’

  The porter faced me, wide-eyed with fear.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘On your knees!’

  He lifted himself to a kneeling position. I clambered over the bed and stood before him.

  ‘Drop your breeches!’

  He did as I commanded, revealing a big, meaty arse. Captain Robert leaned against the mantelpiece, watching the performance with amused satisfaction, and gave our prisoner a stinging swipe across the cheeks with the flat of his sword. The porter stifled a cry.

  ‘Open your mouth.’

  He obeyed. I stepped towards him, my prick now completely hard. He looked at it with a mixture of terror and curiosity. His tongue trembled out of his mouth. I rested the head of my cock against it; it felt like a cushion.

  ‘Now suck it.’

  He gazed up at me in consternation.

  ‘Come now, you saw what I was doing to the captain, didn’t you, my peeping spy? That’s all the instruction you need. Suck it.’

  He tried his best, choking and gagging at first until tears ran out of the corners of his eyes. It was not particularly pleasant, but the novelty of the situation (and the sight of the captain playing with himself) kept me hard.

  ‘Mind your teeth, prisoner!’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ The porter made a concerted effort to improve the quality of his performance; perhaps he was genuinely afraid that his life would be forfeit if he didn’t. Soon his lips were sliding up and down my prick to much greater effect.