by James Lear
“So, imagine that,” I said.
“Mmmm?”
“McDermott a blackmailer. A disgrace to the king’s uniform.”
“Absolutely.” Osborne was getting distracted.
“I don’t recall which regiment he said he was in now.”
“No…”
This wouldn’t do; he was no longer paying attention, at least not to my words. I crossed one leg over the other, barring his view of the vole. He almost hooted in dismay.
“Oh well, I’d better go and talk to Tabib—”
“Scots Guards. Don’t recall which battalion.”
“Of course.” I uncrossed my legs, and his eyes widened again. “McDermott. Scottish. How could I forget. And of course he’s stationed at—” I made my cock jump a little under my towel.
“Wellington Barracks.” The words tumbled from his lips.
“That’s it. I’ve got a good mind to report him. Can’t believe no one else did.” I stood up, and my towel stood out, lifted by my now semierect cock.
“People are too scared,” said Osborne with a sigh. “We’ve all got too much to lose.”
“Not me,” I said, and I was so grateful to the old boy that I readjusted my towel, opening it completely to give him a full flash, before fastening it around my waist again. “Well, looks like my massage awaits.” Tabib was standing at the doorway, a big grin beneath his splendid black moustache. “Been nice talking.”
“Yes.” Osborne blinked and swallowed. “Perhaps I might—”
“Sure,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “See you in the steamroom.”
As I followed Tabib to the table, Osborne positively glowed, and nodded at various acquaintances to make sure that the whole world knew of our “date.”
Tabib was huge: at least six feet tall, and at least 220 pounds, all of it solid, and most of it covered in dense black hair. He was wearing what looked like a long white cotton skirt, secured around his waist with a drawstring, and hanging to his shins; his upper half was bare, apart from his own natural pelt. His shoulders, arms, and hands were massive, his chest like a barrel, and his stomach a great convex mound, the muscles beneath shoving their way forward. I could only imagine what lay beneath his flimsy garment; if everything was built to scale, here was a man more than capable of scratching my inner itch, though getting my asshole fucked in the basement of the Parthenon Club would not help matters much. However, if Tabib gave satisfaction, I would make sure that we exchanged numbers, if nothing else.
I lay facedown on the table, as instructed in heavily accented English, and Tabib whipped the towel off me in one deft move.
“Arms by side,” he said, grabbing my hands and pulling them down. “Head like so.” He gently lifted my head and let it rest on its side. He was immensely strong, and very gentle.
The first touches, too, were gentle: small circles with his fingertips on the top of my back, fanning out over my shoulders and down my spine, until my whole body was awake and alive to every sensation. Needless to say, my cock, which had been half hard thanks to Osborne’s ocular attentions, was soon fully erect; I’d taken the precaution of pointing it up against my belly when I lay down, otherwise things would have been very uncomfortable. As it was, I had to shift a few times as it grew to reposition it between the flesh of my body and the leather of the massage table.
Tabib was getting firmer now, using the heels of his palms to press against my rib cage, pushing the air out of my lungs and forcing me to breathe heavily. The rush of oxygen into my body was intoxicating—and of course my cock got harder. He knew exactly when to venture south, and soon his great hands were kneading my buttocks, working along the backs of my thighs, my calves, and down to my feet. When he pressed his thumbs into the softest part of my sole, I groaned aloud, and thought, for a second, that I was going to start coming. This caused a commotion in the changing room; I heard shuffling and scuffling, and then Tabib’s angry voice, “Go on, get away, the lot of you!” and the clang of brass rings and the swoosh of fabric as he pulled the curtain across the doorway.
“Silly old men,” he said. “Now we are private.”
Tabib got back to work on my feet; I don’t know exactly how he did it, but within a minute I was in a semitrance state, all thoughts of sex cleared from my mind (yes, I too found it hard to believe), surrendering instead to a great buoying wave of calm. I might have floated off on this into a happy slumber but for two things—first, the unmistakable prod of a very big, hard, cloth-covered penis against my leg, and second, a huge hand slapping my ass as a gruff voice commanded, “You turn over now.”
I almost said, “Yes, sir!” but realized this would not be becoming for a guest at the Parthenon. Instead I raised myself on my forearms, twisted my body around, and settled back, my cock pulsing against my stomach. There was plenty of evidence of excitement, for those who knew where to look, other than the obvious indicator of my erection; the hair on my stomach was sticky with precum.
“Good,” said Tabib, a man of few words. His hands went to my chest and started rubbing, the fingers occasionally catching a nipple and squeezing it; I wasn’t sure if we’d crossed some kind of boundary between “giving a massage” and “having sex” yet, but we were certainly in some kind of disputed zone between the two.
Then he took hold of my cock, and settled the matter.
“You want relief?”
The answer, of course, was “yes,” and despite the efforts of the previous night it wouldn’t take him too long to bring me to a climax. But should I be saving myself? Would I need to perform again in the foreseeable future? There is an economy of spunk, and when a friend’s life is at stake you have to ensure that every drop is spent wisely. So, if Tabib was going to get a load out of me, as his expert ministrations suggested he would, I must make sure that I get something in return, other than the best hand job of my life.
“Yes,” I said. “But first, tell me something, Tabib.”
“Sir?”
I sat up; he never let go of me. Now that I looked at him, I could see his prick straining against the thin fabric of his skirt; it, too, was colossal.
“What do you know about Frank Bartlett?”
“Mr. Bartlett very nice man.”
“You do this for him?”
“Sometimes.”
“Done it recently?”
“No, sir. He do it with Mr. Morgan.”
Discretion was not one of Tabib’s virtues, it seemed.
“And before Mr. Morgan?”
“Many men. Sometimes me.”
“I see.” Bartlett, it seemed, was quite active outside the legal profession. And, for that matter, outside the law. “And would you describe him as a generous man?”
Tabib looked puzzled and stopped. “Gener… What?”
“Does he give you money?”
“Ah!” He grinned again and resumed his stroking. “Yes. Mr. Bartlett very kind. Give me presents.”
“And to other people?”
“I do’know. I don’ask. I think maybe. Sometimes.”
“To Mr. McDermott?”
“Ach! He is bad man.”
“So I gather. Did Bartlett give him presents?”
Tabib looked sulky. “I s’pose.”
“Right.” I lay back. “Go ahead, Tabib. I’ll give you a nice present too.” And you can give me one some time, I thought, with a glance at that great big cock.
He oiled up his hands and started running them up my shaft, one after the other, like a potter working a lump of clay on a wheel. My cock seemed to grow with each slippery pass, and I surrendered entirely to the feeling.
But part of my mind was still working. I had a sense of relief—not just the relief that Tabib was about to bring me—and I needed to analyze it. Something he said pleased me. What was it? Something about gifts. Ah, yes, of course: he had confirmed that Bartlett was given to spontaneous generosity, and if he was capable of showering gifts on a scoundrel like McDermott or a hairy giant like Tabib, the
n it made perfect sense that he would be even more liberal toward Morgan. Perhaps, after all, it was just as Morgan had said—the gifts of money and property, even the final grand gesture of the will itself, were unsolicited. Morgan had not asked or demanded; Bartlett had simply given, riding roughshod over any misgivings that his young protégé may have had. Yes, it seemed to me entirely possible, as Tabib worked his magic on my thick, oily prick, that Morgan was telling the truth.
And then I felt the tickle of coarse hairs on my supersensitive dickhead, and looked up to see Tabib’s moustache making contact. His lips parted, and he sucked me in. This was my first experience of Turkish massage—but if this is what it’s like, I’m booking my passage to Istanbul as soon as possible.
It didn’t take long before I was squirting a load into the back of Tabib’s throat; he precipitated matters by slipping one well-lubricated finger up my ass, and with the other hand making a ring of thumb and index finger around my balls, pulling them firmly down. When I started coming, I stuck my hands into his thick black hair and held him in place. Finally, he pulled away, just in time for a final glob of jism to land in his moustache. He licked it away and swallowed.
I gave him a pound, with which he seemed well pleased, and judged it money well spent. As I went back into the changing room to get the money from my wallet, Gerald Osborne made a great show of ignoring me, turning his back and engaging his neighbor in sudden animated conversation. Oh dear, I thought, I’ve let him down. Oh well; let him follow me into the steamroom if he relents. I’m sure I can do something to cheer him up.
I wasn’t wrong; I hadn’t been steaming for more than ten minutes before the door opened and a recognizably stout silhouette appeared in the doorway. It was hard to see too much in there, but I was pretty sure that Osborne was keeping our rendezvous. I was lying completely naked, only my towel between my ass and a marble ledge. Steam pipes hissed, and water dripped, but apart from that the room was silent.
“I hope Tabib gave satisfaction.” Yes, it was Osborne all right; I didn’t need to see his face to imagine the kind of dance his features would be executing.
“Mmmm…” I stretched out. “He sure did. I feel great.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“He ever do that for you, Osborne?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Suck your cock?”
“Oh! Well. Really.”
I expected to be told that we don’t like that sort of talk in the Parthenon, but instead Osborne sat down—nearer to me than the otherwise empty steamroom necessitated.
“Swallowed it all, too. I like that.”
“Yes.” There was a long pause as he worked his way around to some kind of comment. “I could have done that for you, you know.”
I feigned surprise. “You? An MBE?”
“Why not? And I wouldn’t have charged you either. You could have saved your money.”
“I’ll bear that in mind for the future.”
“I don’t suppose…”
“Hey,” I said, “you’re welcome to try. But I’m afraid you won’t get much out of me.”
“Oh, I don’t mind that,” said Osborne, sounding much more cheerful. “I just like to…you know.”
“Suck?”
“Mmm.” He was down on his knees in an instant, and soon had me in his mouth. He certainly knew what he was doing, and after a great deal of effort he managed to get me up to a state of reasonable hardness. Further than this we were never going to go, and before long the sensation was too much, and I started to soften.
“Nothing personal, Osborne,” I said. “In fact, you do that really well.”
“Thank you,” he said, reluctantly relinquishing me. “Would you mind if I just—”
“Make yourself comfortable?” I spread my legs. “Be my guest. All yours.”
And so, nursing on my soft cock, burying his nose in my pubic hair, occasionally licking my balls, Osborne worked his hand between his legs and finally, with a long exhalation of breath through his nostrils, came over the marble floor beneath my feet.
I thought Osborne was the sort who would wipe up and run, but once his breathing had returned to normal he became quite companionable. I was getting far too hot, and longed for a cold shower and some fresh air, but Osborne was inclined to confidence.
“Your friend Bartlett needs to take care, you know,” he said, making a little cushion of his towel and parking his rosy bottom on it. “We worry about him. Most of us are careful—too careful, I sometimes think, with all the opportunities that pass us by. But I’d rather end up alone if it means I don’t have to face the horror of a scandal. Bartlett, on the other hand, believes in love.”
Oh! The irony with which he laced that word.
“And you don’t?”
“Love? For people like us? I don’t think so. Fun and games, dear boy. Slap and tickle. A few quid here, a few quid there, something to keep you going, and all that. But no: not love.”
I would have mentioned Vince, but somehow this didn’t seem the time. “But Bartlett believed—believes in the possibility?”
“Yes. Always chasing rainbows, that one.”
“And did he find his pot of gold?”
“He thinks so.”
“And what do you think?” I lay back, my head in Osborne’s lap. He stroked my hair.
“I don’t know what to think. I know so little about the boy.”
The Boy. Boy Morgan.
“You don’t trust him?”
“One trusts nobody, does one?” His fingers ran over my face, feeling my eyelids, my lips, my chin. “The young gentleman in question seems respectable enough.”
“Mmm…”
“And from what one gathers he has a good job at the London Imperial Bank.”
“Oh yes.”
“And so one can really only hope and pray that Frank won’t be disappointed again. But lately…” His hand went down my neck, onto my chest. “Something’s wrong. I know it is. I have a sixth sense for these things. I’ve seen Frank Bartlett in trouble before. I recognize the signs. There’s a recklessness about him…”
“You think he’s in trouble?”
“Yes. I’m absolutely certain of it.” His fingers found my nipple. “I think he’s being blackmailed again. I say, Mr. Mitchell,” he said, noticing a stirring below my waist, “there really is no stopping you, is there? I don’t suppose…”
I sat up. “Really, Mr. Osborne,” I said, “I couldn’t. Thanks all the same.”
“Will I see you again?”
His voice was so soft, so sad, I couldn’t bear to be unkind.
“Of course. I’ll be back in a day or two, and you can suck me to your heart’s content.” I replaced my towel. “And it won’t cost you a penny.”
Chapter Twelve
HOW TO CATCH A GUARDSMAN? THIS IS A CHALLENGE THAT has exercised minds since the first smartly fitted uniform was admired by a wealthy older man sometime in the remote historical past. Usually money changes hands, and, according to my sources, blows are frequently exchanged as the trade reasserts its masculinity after the act of congress. Guardsmen are popular game, but dangerous, rather like lions. You have to use a good deal of cunning in order not to get hurt—and Bartlett, it seemed, had not been quite cunning enough.
My visit to the bowels of the Parthenon Club was well worth while, quite apart from the expert oral and manual ministrations of Tabib and Osborne, two men who really knew their way around the male anatomy. I had uncovered what seemed to be the root cause of Frank Bartlett’s problems—the blackmailer who had set him off on a disastrous chain of events that came to such a sticky end yesterday morning. I had a name—McDermott; a regiment—the Scots Guards; and a barracks—the Wellington, near Buckingham Palace. If I couldn’t get my man on the basis of that information, I might as well give up detective work forever and concentrate instead on being a decent doctor.
A doctor… Yes, that, perhaps, was the key. The medical profession is re
spected and obeyed at all levels of society, even the military, and if I could somehow use my qualifications to gain access to the barracks, then an unofficial interview with McDermott could easily be arranged. One only had to say a few carefully chosen words—tests, screening, contagion, results—and doors would be opened.
I hurried back to my room in the doctors’ quarters, sweet-talked the nurse at the reception desk into giving me a couple of sheets of Middlesex Hospital letterhead, and jumped on a bus to Piccadilly. From there it was only a short walk through St. James’s Park to the barracks, and on the way I scribbled a note to the commanding officer requesting an urgent interview with one McDermott in the light of recent medical tests, results, and so on, and requesting the use of a private office at his earliest convenience. My medical bag, containing a stethoscope and a few other props, seemed to convince the relevant parties that I was in earnest, and within half an hour of my request I was being shown into a small, windowless room—it looked like an interrogation room—by a deferential young guardsman who started asking me about the best cure for athlete’s foot. Resisting the temptation to inspect him right there and then, I advised him to bathe the affected part in a weak solution of chloroxylenol, available from any pharmacist under the brand name Dettol. This seemed to satisfy him.
My friendly young companion stayed with me until the door was opened by a dazzlingly handsome creature in a pair of black uniform trousers, shiny black boots, and an open-necked white shirt. His hair was dark and neatly cut, his sideburns ended in a sharp line level with the lobe of his ear, and two regular black brows accentuated a pair of violet blue eyes. He may have been a guardsman, but nature had designed him to be a gigolo. In different circumstances—in a gentlemen’s club, for instance, or a pub or nightclub—he would be absolutely irresistible, in his element, exuding the magnetic force that drew Bartlett and his kind like iron filings. But here, in a grim cube of a room in the barrack block, facing a doctor (I’d put the stethoscope around my neck to emphasize my status) and some mysterious medical problem, he looked far from comfortable. In fact, he looked worried. How much more worried will he look when the police catch up with him, I wondered. For I, unlike the Bartletts and Osbornes of this world, would have no hesitation in blowing the whistle on his nasty little racket. In my opinion, blackmailers are lower than shark shit, as we say back home in Boston, and I would take great pleasure in sending this specimen to meet his just deserts.