The Low Road

by James Lear

  ‘Well, Captain,’ I said, ‘he’s taking to cocksucking quite satisfactorily. I think it’s time for the next stage, don’t you?’

  ‘Whatever you say, Miss Charlotte.’

  I pulled the porter off my cock (I was glad to see a look of disappointment on his face) and stepped back. ‘On the bed!’ I barked. He waddled towards the bed, hampered by the trousers round his ankles, and sat down. ‘Now, prisoner, make yourself hard.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Your cock. Make it hard.’

  He frowned in concentration and set to work on himself, pulling on his cock, coaxing it back into life. At first nothing happened, then he sighed, grunted and it began to swell. A little at first - then suddenly it ballooned. The captain and I stood slack-jawed in astonishment; neither of us, I think, had ever seen such a metamorphosis. Soon the porter was shyly holding a great bloated thing, looking sheepishly up at me for further instructions. I wanted nothing more than to shove the monster in my mouth, but I had to maintain the pretence of authority.

  ‘Good. Now keep it that way.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Prisoner, have you ever been fucked?’

  ‘Sir?’ He clearly didn’t understand what I was saying.

  ‘Fucked, man. Do you know the meaning of the word?’

  He made a crude gesture with his finger and closed fist, but looked confused. ‘A man and a woman, sir?’

  The captain laughed. ‘Show him, Miss Charlotte!’

  ‘Lie back and spread your legs in the air, prisoner.’ He did as he was told. He had a nice, clean, pink arsehole. I spat on my fingers and rubbed them around his crack; his great prick twitched to an even greater size, and he looked surprised. I worked a finger in; he was shocked, but dared not complain. Another finger, and he grimaced with pain.

  ‘Relax, prisoner. Here, let me help you.’ I grasped the great organ that I had been longing to touch, and slowly wanked him. He sighed and closed his eyes, the muscles inside his hole loosening.

  ‘That colt is broke for riding now, Miss Charlotte. I suggest you mount him.’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’ I had no particular desire to hurt the porter, but when I removed my fingers and replaced them with my cock he looked surprised by the pain. Again, I teased his prick until he was ready to take me, and pushed all the way in. The captain, eager to join the game, jumped on the bed and sat on the porter’s face, commanding him to ‘Lick my arse!’. The porter obliged, only to find his mouth plugged with the captain’s cock. And so we rode him, watching each other breaching him at each end; I was glad to see that he remained erect throughout. Captain Robert pulled out and came all over the porter’s face, while I shot a load up his arse.

  We climbed off him.

  ‘Shall we let the prisoner go now, Miss Charlotte?’

  ‘Not quite yet, Captain. There’s just one more thing.’ I felt sorry for the poor man, who was writhing around on the bed like a cat on heat. I dived down and practically dislocated my jaw trying to get his prick into my mouth; finally I had to be content with just the first couple of inches, making a tunnel with my two hands down the shaft while the captain shoved three fingers up the man’s arse. Thus employed, it took us no time to bring him relief.

  Finally we allowed him to get up and dress; he kept glancing down at the captain’s cock, half fearful, half eager that he would get hard again and commence another fucking.

  ‘Tell nobody of this, or your life is worthless!’ hissed the captain with full melodrama.

  ‘No sir. I promise. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Now bring me a chamber pot. I need to piss.’

  ‘Yes sir!’ The porter dashed out into the corridor and returned a second later with the requisite article, which he placed on the table.

  ‘Not there. Hold it.’

  As the porter held the chamber pot at waist level, Captain Robert strode over and, never taking his eyes from the porter’s, hoisted his prick into the pot and half filled it with piss, then stood nonchalantly shaking the drips off.

  ‘Now for Miss Charlotte.’

  The porter obediently shuffled over to me and held out the pot. I filled it to the brim and let my prick dip into the warm yellow fluid.

  ‘Now go.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ The porter, cradling the pot of piss, backed out of the room. We heard him slowly descending the stairs.

  The captain threw back his head and laughed heartily.

  ‘Well, Charlie, you’re as debauched as I am, and that’s a fact. Now we must make haste. Dress yourself from my trunk and we’ll take fresh horses from the stables. And on the road, I’ll tell you who I am and where I’m bound.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  St Leonard’s Castle, Edinburgh June 1751

  My dearest Charles

  This is the last letter you will receive from me - if, indeed, you have received any of the letters that narrated my sorry decline since that disastrous day when I was taken from your side.

  I have found great strength and solace in my trouble from the certainty that you are safe and well, and from an inner peace that has come from certain fundamental truths that I have finally acknowledged about myself. My only regret is that I should have come to this too late. I pray that you will find happiness in your life, Charlie, and that you will remember one who loved you. Perhaps, if God wills it, I will have knowledge of you when I am on the other side.

  I write this in what I believe to be the last hour of my life. I have no reason to think that it will ever find its way to you, although the guard has promised to smuggle it out of the castle. Ah well, I must believe that he is telling the truth, as it comforts me to make these communications. Surely, Charles, there is nothing in this world as important as love. It is easy to see that now that I face death; less easy in the pride and turmoil of a man’s life. Politics, allegiance, war, intelligence, rank - all of these are nothing compared to love.

  My holiday at Leigh House continued for a month or so, and I sank into a satisfied stupor, thanks to Master Jonathan’s expert attentions. Every once in a while he invited a soldier to join us in the study, commanding us both to fuck him, making the soldier suck me off while he watched, and so on. Occasionally he insisted on leaving the door to the chamber open so that we might be ‘discovered’; he loved the sense of danger and transgression that accompanied our liaisons. I went along with him, fooling myself that there was nothing I could do about my position, but in truth intoxicated by the affair, lured into the boy’s dangerous web of deceit.

  Well, I have nobody to blame but myself. One day, Jonathan arrived in my room, accompanied on this occasion by not one but three soldiers. This was extravagant even for him, but they were handsome fellows and I was curious to see what he would force us to do. I was feeling the first tingling in my groin, when Jonathan stepped aside to make way for his father.

  ‘There’s the fellow, sir,’ he said, pointing at me.

  ‘So I see,’ lisped the father, dressed on this occasion in a peculiar Turkish outfit. ‘Get up, Lebecque.’ His face was cold.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Do you confess to debauching my son?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Lebecque. Is it true? That you have sodomised my child under my own roof, as a guest in my house?’ Oh, I saw it all now. The injustice of his accusations made my blood boil: I was no more a ‘guest’ in that prison than I had ‘debauched’ his son. The soldiers, seeing my anger, put their hands on their swords.

  I was silent.

  ‘You, a priest, a man of God! Are you not ashamed to be caught in so disgusting a vice?’ He was working himself into a mock fury-I suppose he needed to muster a show of anger in order to render his next move more convincing.

  ‘I have no option but to hand you over to the Sheriff, Monsieur. I suppose you know what the punishment for such a disgusting crime is? Well, I need not spell it out...’ Just as well, I thought: if all in Leigh House were punished according to the law, there
would be a quick end to the family line. Still I held my tongue. This infuriated Leigh even more.

  ‘Have you nothing to say? No excuse? No lies? Ah, I see, guilty as charged!’

  ‘You have made your mind up, sir. There is no need for me to speak.’ I looked at Jonathan as I spoke. His smooth, bland, smiling face betrayed no emotion. After all the times we had spent together, he was happy to hand me over to certain death.

  ‘Take him away,’ said the treacherous young man. ‘He disgusts me.’

  The soldiers dragged me to my feet; as we descended the stairs I could hear father and son shrieking at each other like fish wives. God knows what hateful coils had led to my betrayal; I understood now that Jonathan’s sexual appetites had been nothing more than a trap to catch me. Just like the cowards at Fort William, they could not kill a priest - but a convicted sodomite was a different matter. Defrocked, discredited, nobody would oppose my death. That there were political motives behind my arrest and removal from Leigh House I have no doubt.

  Strangely I have no bitterness towards Jonathan Leigh. His judgement will come in the next world, I suppose.

  I was taken in a closed carriage across country, without food, for three days. Arriving at our destination, I saw from a few familiar landmarks that we were in Edinburgh. Then I was bundled inside the castle and have not seen the light of day since.

  I was placed in a cell with two other souls, both of them imprisoned for the same ‘crime’ as myself. There was no talk of a trial. We were there to await death. We were not chained, at least; there was no escape from the cell, and we were under constant observation through the bars like animals at a zoo. There were always one or two guards outside, just to make sure that we didn’t cheat the hangman by harming ourselves. There was little opportunity to talk; occasionally, when the guard slept, we enjoyed a few whispered conversations, from which I learned where I was and what my fate would be.

  My two companions had been clerks in the King’s service, working together on the land records that legitimised the shameful seizure of ancient lands from their rightful owners by the English crown. They were both lowland Scots, good, peaceable men who had taken the King’s money to feed their families. They were friends since childhood, and had been lovers since their teens. They had been caught - betrayed, like me - by enemies within the corrupt administration. Accused, they had done nothing to defend themselves, eager to spare their families the shame of a scandal.

  Steven, the more talkative of the two, was a slim youth of about 25 with abundant curly brown hair, an open, friendly face and, even in these horrific circumstances, a ready smile. Sam, his companion, was the same age, shorter and more muscular, with a cropped head and sideburns down to his chin. His eyes were the palest grey, with pupils like pinpricks; his jaw worked constantly, as if, beneath the silent exterior, there was fury within. They seldom spoke to each other; they sat, touching perhaps at the knee or the shoulder, in silent communion. I felt as if I was intruding.

  I had been in the cell for twelve hours when we had our first opportunity to speak.

  ‘My name’s Seven,’ whispered the curly-haired one. Sam was asleep with his head on his shoulder. I introduced myself and cautiously held out a hand, which was gripped warmly.

  ‘You’re like us.’ It wasn’t a question. They had been told of my arrival - and my crime.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We only have a few days now.’

  ‘All of us?’

  ‘Yes.’ He actually smiled. And so, in fragmentary conversations over the next few days, I pieced together their story and learned something of my own fate. The gallows were to be built at the end of the week. It was a Sunday when I arrived It is now Thursday night. We hang at dawn. False information has been released to the authorities, claiming that we are held awaiting trial next month; the trial, however, will never happen for the prisoners will be dead. Given the nature of our crimes, it is unlikely that any complaint will be made. And for the political puppeteers behind my incarceration, this is most eminently desirable. Word will never reach France, and I will rest in an anonymous grave far from home. My defeat is absolute.

  Yesterday I asked Steven if he was content to die. He smiled sadly and grasped Sam’s hand.

  ‘I am content, sir, that we die together. If there was anything I could do to save Sam, I would do it, but there is nothing. I am only glad that he is not dying and leaving me alone. That I could not bear. At least we leave this world together, and go, I believe, to a better place.’

  His simple faith touched me, and I thought of you. How lucky they were, these two who faced death with such composure; they knew that they were loved, and they were together as equals in the face of death. I, who have never told my love, who have never known what it is to have a love returned, die alone. I have tasted pleasure along the way, thank God; my body, at least, has known ecstasy. But my heart dies unfulfilled.

  The priest visited us late yesterday evening, and mumbled a few platitudes. I begged him for pen and paper that I might write a confession; I flattered him enough that he conceded to my wishes. The guard took pity on me and agreed to deliver this letter on my behalf. Perhaps he was saying it only to make me feel better; ah well, it has worked. And so I write these last lines to you.

  The evening wore on, and we were left alone for a while. Sam cradled Steven in his arms; occasionally they kissed. I saw a look of imprecation in Sam’s eyes, and I understood; they wanted for one final time to be fully together, without the intrusion of a third party. I walked to the bars, and turned my back on them as they began to make love. The muted noises of their activity had the predictable effect on me, so when the guard returned to the cell I was able quickly to distract his attention by offering him my erect penis through the bars. My gamble paid off; instead of raising the alarm, he sank to his knees and started sucking. I kept him busy for long enough for Sam and Steven to finish; they lay in each other’s arms as I shot my come into the guard’s upturned face. He, perhaps, was conscious that this was my last chance for sexual pleasure, and he gave me the best that circumstances allowed, for which I thanked him.

  I must now finish my letter and give it to the guard before it is too late. I can hear hammering from beyond the wall; I guess that the scaffold is being erected. Thank God Sam and Steven are still asleep. Soon they will be at rest forever - together.

  Charles, I have no time. I wish my life could have been otherwise. I love you more than man has ever loved.

  Pray for me

  BL

  Chapter Fifteen

  Captain Robert’s command of the situation astonished me. We had been on the road barely a day before he had apprised himself of all the facts relating to Lebecque’s whereabouts that I had been unable to discover in weeks of searching, although he had the good grace to tell me that my paltry little bit of information, gleaned from General Wilmott’s confidential files, was the key to the whole mystery. He laughed long and loud when I told him (in detail) what I’d had to go through in order to get it, and promised me that we would stop for ‘asparagus’ at the very first opportunity.

  And so I came under the tutelage of perhaps the most accomplished double agent in the history of these islands. Captain Robert - that is the name I knew him by, although not his real one, which he never revealed to me - was in the pay of both the English and the French governments, playing the one off against the other when it suited him, loyal at heart to the Stuart cause (as his tattoo suggested) and willing to risk everything in order to help one that he considered worthy of his support. One such was Lebecque. Robert had, indeed, been sent from France to discover Lebecque’s whereabouts, although his brief had been information rather than rescue. As far as his French masters were concerned, Lebecque could live or die; they cared only that someone should continue to smuggle wealthy Jacobites out of Scotland that they might bring their money across the Channel. ‘Ah, Charlie,’ laughed Robert, ‘there are no good men and bad men in this muddle. The French are as dishonest as
the English, and, I’m glad to say, just as partial to a bit of cock up the arse.’ I had no doubt that the good captain spoke from extensive experience on both sides of the water.

  ‘But I’ll say one thing, I’ve never met one yet who could match my appetites, with the honourable exception of your good self. Here’s to you, Charlie Gordon, the best fuck in Christendom.’

  We were riding in broad daylight along the great eastern road to Edinburgh. The captain was known to all the patrols along the way, and we passed by with nothing more than a wave and a friendly greeting. Outside Armadale we enjoyed a four-man military escort, having been warned by the young sergeant at the English garrison there (who ‘fucked like a rabbit’, according to Robert) that there were ‘dangerous Jacobite bandits’ abroad who would kill us if they could. ‘Arse bandits, to boot,’ muttered Robert in my ear; little did these good soldiers know that they were delivering the most dangerous of them all to safety.

  Robert was in high good humour. He could not believe his luck in finding me along the way, and chuckled constantly over the coincidence of our shared interest in Lebecque. Riding by my side, he unveiled his plans: we would make our way to the outskirts of Edinburgh, raise a small force and storm the castle, rescuing Lebecque - who was to be held there indefinitely awaiting trial, according to ‘impeccable sources’. Aloud, he boasted to the sergeant about his latest sexual conquests, how he had fucked a certain ‘Miss Charlotte’ who had ‘squirmed around on the end of my cock like a stuck pig’. Poor sergeant; he would have loved to trade places with that fortunate young lady. He licked his lips and rode along in sullen silence.

  Rid of our escort, we struck off south into the Pentland Hills where, said Robert, we would lie low and rally our forces. There was no hurry; Lebecque was in prison, uncomfortable perhaps, but in no immediate danger. We stopped at the Water of Leith to bathe in the cold, clear streams, where the captain painfully eased the dressings and splints from his wounded arm and decided that it was sufficiently healed to be put back into use. He chased me, naked, through the heather, brought me down in a flying tackle and fucked me under the open sky, both of us bellowing at the top of our lungs as we reached the climax, our only witnesses a startled capercaillie.