by James Lear
“What did he look like? I mean, what sort of age, build, coloring?”
“He was in his mid-forties. Average height, a bit shorter than me, but then I’m such a beanpole. Bit taller than you, shortarse.” This was better; Morgan was more like his old, bantering self. “Dark hair, what was left of it; he told me he started losing his hair when he was an officer in France. He saw some terrible things over there, Mitch. He was a hero, you know. Distinguished war record. Decorated, and everything. He wasn’t one of those awful old men who try to hide it by brushing their hair over the top; he wore it cut short on the back and sides, with a good pair of side-whiskers that he always kept very neatly trimmed. I remember thinking, when I first met him, what a neat, clean man he was. He always looked freshly barbered, freshly shaved…”
A shudder went through Morgan’s body—and through mine. We were both thinking of the razor. I squeezed him tight, and he continued.
“Anyway…” He cleared his throat. “He was in very good shape for a man of his years. Most of the chaps in the City get very flabby once they’re over thirty, but not Bartlett. He played a lot of sport, trained with weights at his club, had a lot of massages and steam, and so on. His gut was as hard as mine; harder, actually. He was strong and wiry, with a lot of dark hair on his chest and stomach and arms and legs. To look at him, you’d have taken him for ten years younger, at least.”
“So you got to see quite a lot of him?” I couldn’t keep a suggestive tone out of my voice.
“Yes, well… I mean, like I said, we got on terribly well. He invited me to his club. You know, the Parthenon, in Saint James’s.”
I whistled.
“Oh yes, he had everything of the best. Very nice, the Parthenon. Excellent food, and excellent facilities. They have a Turkish bath in the basement. You can exercise down there on all sorts of pulleys and contraptions, then you can get a jolly good rubdown and a steam bath.”
“I see.”
“And… Well, Mitch, you know what I’m like.” He sounded ashamed, as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“I do.”
“We were there one evening after work. It had been a long day; Bartlett was preparing a report for his shareholders, and we’d spent hours going over and over a load of figures until my eyes were rolling around in my head. So he suggested we go for a massage and a spot of steam. And it jolly well did the trick. Those Turkish chaps, they can really work the knots out of you. Have you ever tried it?”
“No. Go on.”
“Well, afterwards we were relaxing in the steamroom. It’s marvelous, all done out in oriental tiles, and so on, with little cabins that you can rest in, get a bit of shut-eye.”
“I see.”
“And so we were lolling around in one of these, just with towels wrapped round our waists, and I got…you know. A stiffy.”
“You would.”
“I didn’t really notice particularly, I just felt so relaxed and good after the massage, until I noticed that Bartlett was staring rather hard at the front of my towel. So I shifted my leg to try and, you know, hide it a bit, but that didn’t work, because the towel started to come undone, and the old feller was about to pop out, so instead I rolled over on my front.”
“And what did he do?”
“Blow me if he didn’t start stroking my backside.”
“Through the towel?”
“At first. Then his hand went up my leg. He had big, strong hands, and he was grabbing me—not roughly, but very firmly. Like he was playing with a football.”
I knew exactly what he meant; I have done the same to Morgan’s ass myself a hundred times. It’s one of the most grabbable asses I have ever seen. I couldn’t fault Bartlett’s taste, even though I found myself hating him for touching something that, in some way, I thought of as “mine.”
“So what did you do? Tell him to get off?”
“I suppose I should have done. Business and pleasure, and all that. But—well, it felt good, and you know what I’m like when things feel good, Mitch. I find it very hard to say no.”
That’s one of the reasons I love you, I wanted to say.
“Then he pulled the towel off me completely, and got both his hands on my bum, kneading it like dough. God, that made me so hard. It had been ages since anyone had touched me there. Not since you and I… When was that?”
“A while ago,” I said, not wanting to remember the strained atmosphere at our last parting.
“And then I felt his face pressing between my buttocks, kissing, his tongue pushing between them. I said he was always clean shaven, but by now it was early evening, and there was a bit of stubble on his chin. It scratched and scraped; I love that feeling, and my legs just opened up. His tongue was straight in there, and it hit my you-know-what. It was incredible, Mitch. His tongue was so firm—it felt like… Like a cock.”
I was hard myself, and pressed against him. He moaned softly, and wriggled back into me.
“I had my forehead resting on one forearm, but with the other hand I reached round and found his cock. It was like an iron bar, Mitch. It was so big and hard. When I grabbed it, he groaned like a soul in torment. I looked up, and there was the most extraordinary expression on his face—I couldn’t decide if he was sad, or happy, or angry. We looked at each other for a while, and then… And then… He kissed me.”
“I see.”
“God, it was wonderful, Mitch. Not like you—with you I always feel good, and happy, and alive. But this was something different—something serious, and intense, and dangerous. He kissed me like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. It wasn’t a bit of fun between two chaps who happen to like each other a lot—this was like…like it meant everything to him. Life and death.”
I felt that stupid stab of jealousy—I, who was betraying Vince just by being here. “And then he fucked you, I suppose.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice, but I don’t think Morgan even heard me.
“There wasn’t much we could do, right there and then; someone could have walked in. I suppose things go on in those steamrooms all the time, don’t they? But it wouldn’t do to be caught with one’s legs in the air, not in the Parthenon Club, not with an important client like Frank Bartlett. But we carried on kissing as if we couldn’t stop, my hand on his cock, his hand on mine, sitting side by side, kissing and wanking each other until suddenly we were both coming at the same time, breathing in each other’s mouths, sharing the same feelings, as if we were one body. It took both of us a while to come round. Anyone could have stumbled in and found us; we were awfully lucky. Afterwards, we just got dressed. We had a quick drink at the bar, but we didn’t have supper or anything. We both suddenly remembered that we had important reasons for getting home. It had taken us by surprise, rather.”
“I imagine it had.”
“But we both knew that we were going to do something again. There was no going back. I don’t know how other chaps feel after things like that—I suppose for some people, that sort of business doesn’t mean a lot, just a quick fiddle with another fellow and that’s it, full stop. But it wasn’t like that for me. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I was all keyed up for days. Even Belinda noticed. I didn’t hear from Bartlett for a while, but there was no reason for him to speak to me. We’d done all we needed to do.”
“And then?”
“He just turned up at the bank one afternoon. He told my boss that he needed to consult me urgently on a business matter. There was a taxi waiting outside, and we drove out to a hotel near Euston. We didn’t say anything. We were both looking out the window, pretending that nothing was happening, but I was as stiff as a pole and I’m sure he was too. He had a copy of the Times with him, and he lay it on the seat between us, and took off his glove. Our hands met underneath the newspaper, and we held on tight to each other. The driver didn’t suspect a thing.”
“And what happened when you got to Euston?”
“I…” His voice was low and gravelly
. “Mitch, will you do something for me?”
“Anything, Morgan. You know that.”
“I know this sounds completely insane, under the circumstances, but will you…”
“Yes?”
“Will you fuck me?”
“Now?”
“Yes, please. Now. Fuck me. As hard as you can.”
Chapter Two
I GAVE HIM WHAT HE WANTED, AND THEN SOME. I KNOW Morgan well enough to anticipate his needs, to deliver a fuck that will satisfy him on all levels. I started with a finger, warming him up, and when his hole seemed to be sucking my finger in, I judged that the time was right for the main event. There was no time to run around the house looking for lubricants, and unlike my own bedroom, there was no handy little jar of Vaseline on the nightstand, so he would have to do with spit. I knew he could take it. We’d done it this way often enough before.
So I hawked into my hand and rubbed it all over my stiff dick; there was enough of my own slick precum there to make me nice and slippery. Still lying on my side, I pulled down Morgan’s pants, lifted one of his legs, and positioned the head of my cock at the target. One firm push, and I was in. Morgan gasped, and I forged ahead, encountering very little resistance. Usually, when fucking Morgan, the first assault is a tactical matter of advance and retreat; now he yielded completely and immediately. Obviously the late Frank Bartlett had been giving him a lot more than furtive hand jobs in the Parthenon steamroom.
I started fucking him slowly, checking that he was enjoying himself by grabbing his cock and stroking it gently; he was fully hard, as I knew he would be. Morgan loved to be fucked—it was the one thing that prevented him from being the hundred-percent-hearty family man who, in every other respect, he was meant to be. Soon he was pushing back against me, hungry for more; the time was right to change position. I pulled out, grabbed his calves, and rolled him onto his back, pushing his thighs against his stomach. He reached down and pulled his ass open, impatient for me to get back inside. I didn’t keep him waiting.
This way I could fuck him with all my body weight pressing into him, and I could watch his face for clues and cues as to where to go next. At first he kept his eyes shut tight, his mouth set in a grim line, as if this were a punishment that he had to endure, that he deserved. But then I kissed him, fucking his mouth with my tongue as I was fucking his ass with my cock, and he came back to me. His eyes opened and looked into mine, and we spent the next few minutes searching the depths of each other’s soul. At least, that’s how it felt at the time. These moments of profound communication sound ridiculous in the cold light of day. But as I fucked him, and looked into those big, dark, troubled, honest eyes, I felt that I would never know or love anyone as deeply as I knew and loved Boy Morgan.
It couldn’t last for long; we both needed release. He bucked his hips, and I picked up the rate of my pounding, and soon I was burying my face in his neck and emptying my balls into his guts. He wrapped his legs around me, and with one fist on his cock he pumped himself to a climax just as I thrust the last, longest time into him. We lay like that for a while, my cock buried deep in him, our stomachs glued together with spunk, until finally I withdrew with a plop and a squelch, rolled off him, and held him in my arms.
We must have slept for an hour.
I woke with a start. What were we doing? The police would be back any moment, and I still didn’t have a clue what had happened. Morgan was still lying beside me, but he wasn’t sleeping. His eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling.
“Christ, Boy, we need to get up! Come on!”
“No… I want to stay here.”
I pulled the covers off him; his naked body was beautiful, the hair on his stomach and chest still matted with cum.
“You’re in a big heap of trouble, Boy. You can’t just stay in bed and pretend you’re not.”
“I can.”
He sounded pathetic and petulant, and I told him so. He scowled at me, and very grudgingly got out of bed. The bathroom was out of bounds, but there was a jug of water and a basin in the bedroom; we freshened up as best we could with that, and got dressed. We must have stunk of sex; anyone with a nose for these things would know exactly what we had been doing.
“When are the cops coming?” I asked.
“I don’t know. They don’t give exact appointments.”
It was well after ten o’clock. “They could be here any minute. What are you going to tell them?”
“The truth.”
“The whole truth?”
“Well…”
That, of course, he could not do. To admit to any kind of improper relationship with Frank Bartlett would have landed Morgan himself in the dock, possibly in prison, certainly out of a job and out of a marriage. I hoped to God that there was a damn good solid reason for Bartlett’s suicide—something that didn’t suggest to the police that there were other, unmentionable motives at play.
“So why’d he do it?”
That took him by surprise. “What?”
“Your pal Bartlett. Why did a successful lawyer come around to your house for the weekend and cut his wrists in your bathroom?”
“I… I don’t know…”
“You better have some idea, Morgan, when the police arrive.”
“Oh God.”
“Because if they think for one moment that there was some kind of lovers’ tiff—”
“Don’t be disgusting.”
“You were lovers, weren’t you? You and Bartlett.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Weren’t you?” It was obvious from the deep blush on Morgan’s face, and from the ease with which I had penetrated him, that I was right. This had gone a lot further than a bit of slap and tickle between two married men, the sort of thing that happens every day in every town. Morgan was keeping something from me.
“Yes.”
“Tell me why he did it, Morgan. Please tell me that he was in trouble at work—that he’d been caught with his hand in the till, that he’d forged a document or given false evidence. Tell me that this was a decent, honorable suicide.”
“I don’t know.”
“You must.”
And to underline my words, the doorbell rang. Morgan jumped, then froze.
“Answer it,” he said.
“That’s going to look suspicious. You answer it.” Already, I realized, I was acting as if something had to be covered up. Could it possibly be that Morgan was—what? Guilty? In the wrong? Hiding something? There was no time to think. The bell rang again, and Morgan marched out, looking every inch the successful young City banker enjoying a bachelor weekend in his comfortable suburban family home.
“Ah, hello again, sergeant,” I heard him say from the hall.
“This is Constable Knight,” said a stern, deep voice.
“Constable. Come in, both of you. My friend Edward Mitchell is here.”
Morgan showed the two cops in, and for a crazy moment I hoped that I might be in for a repeat of some of my earlier, friendlier relations with the British police force. These two certainly looked appetizing enough in their uniforms. The sergeant was tall, with dark-brown hair and a strong jaw and chin; his constable was somewhat shorter, fairer, and younger. They both carried their helmets under their arms.
“Mr. Mitchell,” said the sergeant. He did not offer to shake my hand. I nodded coolly.
“Mitch, this is Sergeant Godley. And Constable… Sorry, I’ve forgotten already.”
“Knight,” said the younger man, who stood at the door—as if to prevent any escape bids.
“Please, sit down,” said Morgan. Godley obliged, his constable did not. “What can I do for you, sergeant?”
“Just a few routine questions, sir.” He took out a notebook. Morgan sat, his hands pressed between his knees; he looked anxious.
“You don’t mind if Mitch sits in, do you? I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a state. Mitch is a doctor, he’s good in a crisis.”
“That’s quite all right, sir,” said G
odley, eyeing me coolly. Did he guess, or suspect, the nature of our friendship? If he had seen what we’d been doing just a couple of hours ago, would he have busted us? Or would he have laid his helmet to one side and joined in? And what about the little blond? Would he—
“How did you know Mr. Bartlett, sir?” asked Godley.
“He is a client. I work at the London Imperial Bank. I manage Mr. Bartlett’s business affairs.”
“And how long have you known him?”
“Let me see… A year? No, it was before Teddy was born, before we moved here. Eighteen months, I suppose. Yes, that sounds about right. It was autumn, I think, when he first came in. I seem to remember the conkers were on the trees.”
He was babbling. Godley watched him, and waited for him to stop.
“And why was Mr. Bartlett staying here?”
“What, Frank?” Morgan’s mouth hung open, as if he could not think of an answer. “Well, he was… I mean…”
“He was here to discuss business,” I said. Godley scowled; obviously I was not expected to speak.
“That’s it,” said Morgan. “His firm was about to acquire a new building in Chancery Lane, huge great place, brand-new. Costs a fortune. I advised against it on the ground that it would overextend their credit. Not what the bank ought to tell a customer, that, eh? But he wanted to go over all the pros and cons because I think he’d rather set his heart on it. So we packed the ladies off to his place in Teddington and we were planning to spend the weekend plowing through the figures.”
“Do you have the paperwork to hand, sir?”
“What?”
“The figures that you and Mr. Bartlett were going to, er…” Godley referred to his notebook. “Plow through.”
“No. He brought it with him, I suppose, in his briefcase. We were meant to be starting this morning. Oh God…” Morgan went very pale, and put a hand to his brow. I suppose anyone would do the same under the circumstances, but my heart pounded; I wanted him above all to remain calm and businesslike.
“Was there anything else that you and Mr. Bartlett had planned for the weekend?”