The Back Passage

by James Lear

  With his cock at eye level, I had a chance to study it: I always like to take a good look at a cock I’m about to suck, and have never ceased to delight in the variety of shapes and sizes in which they come. This one was pale along the shaft, with a thick dorsal vein that branched an inch back from the head, which was the most beautiful, nacreous pink I have ever seen. I could wait no longer, and started to lick along the underside. This took my young copper by surprise.

  “Jesus!” he shouted, clearly unaccustomed to the feel of tongue on cock, then hastily silenced himself and, for the next few moments, expressed his pleasure in heavy breathing and the occasional light moan. I licked every part of this cock, all along the sides, the top, around the ridge, and right into the piss slit, where I could still taste the sour, salty traces of his last release. My own cock was smearing what we used to call “pecker tracks” over his uniform trousers.

  This tongue bath was sending young PC Bill into a kind of trance; when I looked up, his head was thrown back against the wall, his eyes half closed, his mouth half open, the strong column of his throat exposed. I had an urge to stand up and kiss him there—and yet there was another column demanding my attention, as a hefty throb from his now wet cock reminded me. The time had come to take him to the next stage—and if licking had rendered him so voluptuously abandoned, I wondered what sucking would do.

  I engulfed his cockhead with my lips, then slid them down until he was touching the back of my throat. I guessed this was something that Norfolk girls didn’t do.

  “Fuck!” Bill barked. “Look at you!” I strained my eyes to look upward, and there he was, staring down, amazed by the sight of his prick stretching my mouth. Not breaking eye contact, I started to move up and down his stiffness; he was red in the face now, and completely in my power.

  I had to remind myself at this point that I had not lured PC Shipton into the bog just to suck him off—not that I wouldn’t have done so under normal circumstances, but in this instance I wanted something more from him. After sucking him for a while, I relinquished his cock and stood up. Masturbating him gently with one hand, I leaned the other palm against the wall beside his head. Our faces were only inches apart.

  “How was that, copper?”

  “I fucking loved it, sir. Please don’t stop.”

  “Just one thing, Bill,” I said, moving even closer, so that our lips were almost brushing.

  “Yes, sir...”

  “When we’ve finished, why don’t you show me around the station?”

  “Can’t do that sir—oh, God!” I had squeezed his prick in such a way as to make him even stiffer.

  “Please, Bill,” I said. “For me.” I didn’t let him reply. With one swipe of my tongue, I opened up his lips and kissed him. This was all that was needed to reduce him to putty. He kissed me back with a passion I have seldom encountered in another man; I guess this was one young cop who was hungry for a bit of love.

  We kissed rough and hard for a while, and then he broke off. Was this the moment at which he’d turn tail and run? I thought not.

  “I’ve got to have you, sir,” he said, as if the words were costing him dear. “I’ve got to feel you inside me.”

  I stepped back, my dick swinging and dripping with juice.

  “It’s all yours, Bill. Any way you want it.”

  He dropped to his knees and started smothering my cock in kisses; this wasn’t going to be a particularly skillful blow job, I thought, but it would be sincerely meant. In between kisses, he would mutter some broken phrase like “Oh, God” or “I just....” I thought it best to let him get it out of his system. My cock was so hard now, and I was so excited by the sight of this overheated copper groveling before me, that I was close to coming. The sight of a small bald spot on the crown of his head pushed me toward the edge.

  “Hold on, Bill,” I said, “unless you want me to come in your face.” From the look of devotion he gave me, I thought perhaps he wanted just that, but I had other ideas. “Let’s find some privacy, shall we?”

  I grasped his upper arm, brought him to his feet, and steered him toward the cubicle. It was spacious inside; really, were the municipal architects trying to facilitate sodomy?

  Once inside, I lost no time in undoing Bill’s trousers, and was delighted to find that his pale, round ass and stocky thighs were covered in dark-brown hair. I spat on a finger, slipped it inside him and saw his dick jump. Now he was sweating.

  “Be careful, sir...”

  “It’s what you want, isn’t it, Bill?”

  “Yes sir. It’s just...”

  “It’s okay, Bill. I won’t hurt you.”

  “No sir.”

  Thank God for the obedience of the British working class in those days. I did my utmost to be good to my word, working gobs of saliva into his hole until my fingers slid in and out quite easily. I pushed him forward so that he was bending over, his legs as far apart as his dropped trousers would allow them, his arms braced against the top of the toilet. My dick, which had been wet from his slobbering kisses, had dried now, but a handful of spit soon had it slick again, and I spread as much precum around the head as I could. I didn’t want to hurt him—apart from anything else, I didn’t want him shouting so much that he brought the entire North Norfolk Constabulary down upon us.

  I nudged the head of my dick into position, and allowed him to get used to the feeling of penis against asshole. When he started shifting around as if to back onto me, I guessed he was ready for more. I slipped a hand around to caress his face: he immediately started licking and sucking my fingers. So, pulling his hips toward me, I made my entrance.

  He didn’t yell. There was a gasp, and a sharp intake of breath, of course. I didn’t move. “Oh, my God, sir,” he whimpered, “that hurts so much.”

  “Wait a bit, Bill,” I said, knowing from plentiful experience on both sides of the act that the initial pain soon translates into pleasure. “I won’t do anything.”

  I reached around to check the state of his cock; the first shock of entry had made his erection collapse. If this was going to be an enjoyable ride, he had better be as hard as possible. My fingers were still wet with spit, and I soon had him slicked up and standing at attention once again. His labored breathing turned to docile sighs, and I proceeded.

  Now, when I pushed against him, the walls of his ass seemed to part in welcome, and in one glide I was up to the hilt.

  “Are you inside me, sir?”

  “Yes. All the way inside you.” I held it still for a while, then squeezed my groin muscles so he’d feel me swell.

  “You’d better fuck me then, because that’s going to make me come in a minute.”

  He wasn’t kidding. I started plowing into him, slowly at first, and from the tumult inside his ass it was evident that his orgasm was hurtling down the tracks at breakneck speed. Knowing that, at this stage, what you want more than anything is hard, fast, and even brutal treatment, I started throwing him a mighty fuck. My instincts were right. A steady, heavy flow of precum suddenly turned into something else, and my no-longer-virgin copper arched his spine and threw his head back. With a prolonged “Aaah...” he started squirting spunk into the toilet bowl as I jerked him off and fucked him simultaneously. The sight of his red face, the veins standing out in his throat, not to mention the tightening of his ass around my prick, had me grunting and spewing into his ass in no time. As I came, I did exactly what I had wanted to do since the moment I first saw him: I leaned forward and kissed him, long and hard, on the neck.

  By the time we’d tidied ourselves up and emerged from the bog, the sun had practically set. PC Shipton wasn’t the least bit gloomy, as I have known some young men to be after their first experience of dick; if anything, he had an extra spring in his step. His tunic was buttoned up high enough to cover the huge bruise I had left on his neck from kissing him—or cover most of it, anyway. Those with eyes to see would imagine that he had gotten carried away with some village sweetheart.

  “Now, don
’t forget, Bill,” I said, as we picked our way through the long grass and broken furniture of the station yard, “I want to see inside.”

  “Well that’s against the rules, strictly speaking, sir.”

  “But you promised...”

  He’d done nothing of the sort, of course, but what had just passed between us gave me sufficient leverage, should it come to that.

  “If you were to go through that side door there,” he said, pointing to a part of the building I had never noticed before, “you’d find yourself in the kitchen. After that I expect you’ll find your way around.”

  “Won’t you show me, Bill?”

  He turned and looked at me with pleading eyes. “I would, sir,” he said—and there was something in his voice that bespoke disquiet with recent events at Drekeham station. “But I daren’t.”

  I fixed his gaze, to see if I could persuade him. Perhaps the suggestion of a quiet word with his superiors about goings-on in the station crapper?

  There was nothing in his eyes but honest dismay. And there was little point in trying to get PC Shipton into trouble—any further than he already was, that is. Besides, I wanted to keep him sweet. He might be of further use, in any number of ways.

  Shipton hurried back to the front of the building, leaving me loitering with obvious intent in the garden. I did not want to be seen; that mean desk sergeant would be only too glad to throw me out into the street, or into the cell more usually reserved for drunken Mr. Desmond. And so, keeping low, I hurried toward the side door that Bill had indicated. It opened with a gentle push, and I was in an old, barely used kitchen—not quite as unsanitary as the toilet, but far from spotless. I guessed that the local police took such refreshment as they needed at the homes and businesses of the local community.

  Voices were audible from nearby, so I tiptoed over to the door and listened hard. They were close, and deliberately low. Did I dare go through that door, running the risk of falling straight into the clutches of Drekeham’s finest? And, if not, was I prepared to throw away the advantage so hard won in the toilets?

  Praying that the door didn’t creak, I pulled it open—and, to my unspeakable relief, it led to a dark, musty chamber, part pantry, part mess room. The voices I had heard were coming from the room beyond—and now that I was only separated by one partly open door, I could hear quite clearly. I crouched beneath the counter and listened.

  What I heard removed any lingering doubt that what had been going on at Drekeham Hall that afternoon was villainy of the deepest dye.

  IV

  THERE WERE TWO VOICES. ONE I RECOGNIZED FROM Drekeham Hall: it was the man Sir James had addressed as “Sergeant,” whose lack of surprise over the discovery of a dead body had so struck me. It was not a local voice; I was already accustomed to the Norfolk accent, had indeed just heard it burbling the most obscene endearments back in the toilets. The sergeant sounded to my ears closer to London. The other voice, however, was definitely local: gruff, low, the voice of an older man. Not the desk sergeant—he was obviously still elsewhere in the building, and I would have to watch my back.

  “Right, Piggott,” the sergeant said. “Your turn to see if you can get a confession out of him.”

  “I’ll make him squeal, all right,” Piggott, the older man, said, with a horribly salacious intonation. “He’ll be crying like a fucking baby by the time I’ve finished with him.”

  “You can do whatever you want, as long as you don’t kill him,” the sergeant said.

  “Bet you ’ave already, Sarge,” Piggott said—and I swear I heard him licking his chops.

  “I’ve prepared the way for you, yeah. Broken his spirit, as it were. Now it’s up to you to finish the job off.”

  “You going to supervise, Sarge?”

  “I think I’d better, don’t you, Piggott? Make sure that proper police procedure is observed at all times.”

  “I’d do a better job that way, Sarge.”

  There was a burst of low laughter, then the sergeant shouted loud enough to be heard throughout the building, “Brown! Bring the prisoner to the interrogation room!”

  There was a moment of silence, broken only by shifting and rustling from the other side of the door. I held my breath, desperate not to reveal my presence at this crucial moment. Then I heard the sergeant laughing again—though this time it was not such a cruel laugh.

  “It hasn’t got any smaller, then, Piggott.”

  This time it was Piggott’s turn to laugh. “No, sir,” he said, clacking his tongue in appreciation. “Still as big as the branch of a tree. Remember that, Sarge?”

  “All too well, Piggott.”

  “And you bloody loved it, Sarge.”

  This was too much for my curiosity to stand. The door between the kitchen and the so-called interrogation room was one of those double-hinged affairs, with a round porthole window about seven inches in diameter in its upper half, to prevent collisions. I found that by seating myself on the counter but keeping no less than a foot away from the glass, I could see into the next room without allowing the light to shine on my face. There wasn’t a great deal of light anyway: just one overhead lamp with a cheap tin shade that illuminated a small circular patch of floor. In this the policeman known as Piggott was standing, his trousers around his thighs, waving around a huge, semihard cock. The overhead lighting made it stand out as if it was glowing; the man’s face was in deep shadow. From what I could see, he was short and thickset, dressed in a blue shirt, the tails of which hung down on either side of his dangling prick. His trousers, of course, were dark-blue, and his boots, where the light hit them, were highly polished. He was fair-haired and balding, and in the bright overhead light his head shone. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong plowman’s forearms covered in a thick blond fleece. As for the sergeant, all I could make out was a darker moving patch against the general gloom; I dared not peer more closely for fear of discovery. But I remembered from the house that he was a smooth-faced, handsome young man with an arrogant, ironic bearing and cold, gray eyes. I thought at the time he was attractive; now that his cruel streak was being revealed, I was less certain.

  The far door banged open.

  “Get in there, you murdering little shit,” came a voice I instantly recognized as the desk sergeant’s. “Stand to attention when you’re in the presence of your betters!” Then there was a thud, and an “Oof!,” from beyond the scope of my vision.

  “Bring the prisoner over here, Brown,” the sergeant said. “Constable Piggott is going to interrogate him.”

  Piggott stepped out of the circle of light; all I could see of him now was one huge, hairy-knuckled hand working his prick to even more prodigious dimensions.

  Much as I disapproved of what was going on, I happily could have watched the show for as long as it lasted—but my attention was drawn by something much more arresting. Meeks, the prisoner, had been thrust into the circle of light, where he instantly fell to his knees.

  The last time I had seen Meeks, serving dinner at Drekeham Hall, I noted with approval his general neatness as well as the roundness of his bum. Now, things had changed. He had obviously received rough treatment in the cells; his shirt was torn and stained, his trousers filthy at the knees, and his face was bruised and dirty. There was a cut on his left cheekbone, not far from the eye, and the surrounding flesh was swelling and discolored. His lower lip was bulging, the neat beard matted with blood.

  It struck me that Meeks did nothing to protest his condition, nor did he struggle. His expression remained as impassive as a Byzantine saint’s. I could see clean tracks in the dirt on his cheeks that showed he had been weeping in the privacy of his cell; now, however, his eyes were dry and downcast.

  “Decided to talk yet, have we?” Piggott said, positioning himself behind the kneeling prisoner and waving his prick at him like a schoolyard bully.

  Meeks remained silent, head bowed, hands resting on his thighs.

  “Come on, you little bastard, we know you did it. Just s
ay the word and you can go.”

  Meeks shook his head—a tiny movement, but enough to enrage his interrogator.

  “Don’t you fucking deny it, you piece of scum,” Piggott shouted, working himself into a fury. I knew from the football field and the boxing ring back home that this kind of channeled aggression was necessary in order to pull off feats of daring. In Piggott’s case, cruelty made his cock bigger and harder. He started swinging his hips, smacking his prick against the side of Meeks’s cropped brown head. “Fucking confess, you bastard, or I’ll have you.”

  Meeks did nothing. With one hand, Piggott pressed the length of his cock against Meeks’s neck, exposed now that the collar had been torn off, and started thrusting his hips so the whole thing slid up and down against his throat. The head, exposed with every thrust, was a huge, bulbous thing, deeply grooved around the piss slit.

  “Make him suck it,” came the sergeant’s voice from beyond the ring of light.

  “He’ll suck it, all right,” Piggott said, grabbing Meeks’s ear and yanking his head into an uncomfortable twist, which brought the uncontrollably thrusting prick into contact with his lips. “If he won’t say the words we want him to say, we’ll just have to put something else into his mouth, won’t we.”

  Even now, with a huge, brutal cock sliding all over his face, Meeks’s expression betrayed nothing. This infuriated Piggott even more. He reached down and forced the prisoner’s jaws apart with one huge hand, then, stretching Meeks’s lips wide open, jammed in as much of his cock as would fit. When he removed his fingers, his cock was planted firmly inside Meeks’s mouth. With one hand holding Meeks’s chin, Piggott began to fuck his face—without much finesse, I thought. Tears ran down Meeks’s cheeks as he gagged, trying not to choke on Piggott’s thrusting prick.

  “See if he’s ready to confess now, Piggott.” Piggott pushed Meeks off his cock, and he fell back on his heels, his head hanging low.

  “Come on, Meeks, all you have to do is tell us that you killed him. That’s all we want to hear.”

  Silence.