by James Lear
“I have no desire to find out. The police said he had been asphyxiated. I can only imagine how. Behind that servile facade, Mr. Meeks is, I believe, a somewhat vigorous lover.”
I was speechless. There seemed no doubting the truth of Leonard’s revelations.
“So now you must leave us to sort things out in our own way,” he continued, sensing my defeat. “With Meeks out of the way, we can take back some control of the staff. The rest of them, with one or two exceptions, are a reasonable bunch. The butler is a dear. The chef isn’t bad, for a foreigner. Even the hall boy, what’s his name, Simon, is a sweetie, though the poor soul is deaf and doesn’t know what’s going on half the time. I’m sure he could tell a few tales. People think he’s stupid, but he’s not. You should have a chat with him. I’m sure you’d find him very eager to oblige.”
Leonard had overplayed his hand; I knew instantly I was being fobbed off with a pat on the head and a sweetie for being a good boy. Presumably Leonard reasoned that if I was busy fucking the oh-so-accommodating hall boy, I would drop my amateur investigation of the Mystery of the Throttled Trade. And it was probably better that he should think that.
“Oh, yes,” I said, “I’ve noticed him. Very nice looking kid.” He was, too, with his sleepy eyes and silky skin, his air of uncomplaining servility. I’d noticed him the moment I walked into Drekeham Hall.
“Very nice indeed,” Leonard said, resuming his expert stroking of my prick. I now allowed myself to grow hard, which wasn’t difficult, as his ministrations hit all the right spots.
“And now,” he said, “I shall go and join the ladies, who, thank God, know nothing of all this.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Oh, Mr. Mitchell,” Leonard said, acting like an abashed debutante, “I think you’d better wait a minute or two. The poor dear ladies would faint if you took that”—giving my cock a last squeeze—“into the drawing room.”
With that, he darted out from under the stairs and, wiggling his backside in farewell, scuttled off to join the rest of the party.
Tempted as I was to pour my frustrations into the mouth of Simon, the hall boy, I could not ignore certain inconsistencies in Leonard Eagle’s generally brilliant attempt to put me off the scent. First of all, if Meeks was so hardened in vice, why had he gone so uncomplainingly to his incarceration in Drekeham Police Station? His martyrlike manner under Piggott’s unorthodox “interrogation” was not the behavior of a man used to bullying and corruption. Nor was he playing along with the police, enjoying the ride, as might have been expected from what Leonard had told me. His attitude, as far as I had seen, was one of patient resignation—the resignation of a man who knows he is innocent, but is powerless to prove it.
Second, and more bothersome, Leonard’s tales of belowstairs buggery did not explain Sir James’s gloomy froideur at dinner. Certainly, it was a blow to his democratic ideals to find that his laissez-faire management methods had resulted in a death—but if this was the case, surely he would have been down there busting heads rather than wreathing himself in smoke through a family dinner. Even taking into account that there were guests in the house, inconvenient witnesses in the form of Morgan and myself, I would have expected a man of action like Sir James to act, not to ponder. Something was holding him back. I could see that he was chafing under the insinuations of his younger brother, and yet he kept quiet. This was inconsistent with the facts as they had been presented to me.
Also—and for this I kicked myself—there was something odd about the way in which the body had been discovered and disposed of. Belinda had found it in a cupboard—almost certainly not the scene of the crime—and was under the impression that it had been dragged there from Sir James’s dressing room. At the time I was quick to dismiss this as the muddled memory of a nice, but not bright, girl. I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t like Belinda much; the truth was that I was jealous of the affection Boy lavished on her, even if it was I who was getting his cock. I had her down as an empty-headed flapper—and I was wrong. I began to wonder if, after all, her observations had been correct, and the body had come not from belowstairs—not directly, at any rate—but from somewhere much more incriminating. Little wonder, if that was true, that Leonard was so eager to distract me with Simon, the hall boy’s, beautiful backside.
With these thoughts occupying my brain, I was very quickly in a fit state to present myself to the ladies; nothing like deductive reasoning to take the blood out of a stiff prick. I did my best to chat and charm, figuring that I would need friends throughout the house if I was going to get to the truth of things. I discussed politics with Lady Diana, I chattered about interior design with Lady Caroline, who wanted to have the drawing room “done over” by Syrie Maugham, all in white, and I attempted to tell Sir James a little of political and economic life in Boston. I flatter myself that I handled all subjects with aplomb, but my mind was elsewhere, worrying at the problem of Meeks and the murdered man like a dog around a bone.
As the clock struck eleven, and Morgan was yawning and dozing in his chair, Burroughs, the butler, arrived to clear away the cups and glasses and to take any orders for the following day. He was a charming old fellow, straight out of a novel: short, slightly stooped, frail and white-haired, sporting a little pair of steel-rimmed spectacles that added the final touch to his butler’s mien. I thought him delightful when I first saw him, so perfectly did he incarnate my American ideas of English servanthood; I think, also, he thought me delightful, as his gaze had more than once lingered about my person with a certain fondness. He was discretion itself, however, and never attempted to engage me in conversation on any topic other than my needs as a guest.
Now, however, he seemed eager to talk—despite the watchful eyes of Leonard and Sir James.
“Are you and Mr. Morgan quite comfortable in your room, sir?” he asked in hushed tones, as he placed my glass on a silver tray.
“Perfectly, thanks, Burroughs.”
“If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ring.”
“Thank you.”
“I will attend you in person.”
“Righto.”
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “So if you have any questions at all, sir, about the running of the house...” Our eyes met; his were quite red, as if he’d been crying. “Do please just let me know.”
He was risking much by talking to me in this way, and I had no desire to worsen his situation. “Thank you, Burroughs,” I said, loud enough for all to hear, “a seven o’clock call would be just fine, and kippers for me. What about you, Boy? Kippers okay?”
“Yuck,” Morgan said, stretching his long arms. “Bacon and eggs for me, anytime.”
“One kipper, one bacon,” Burroughs said, with a grateful smile. “Will there be anything else, Sir James?”
“No thanks, Burroughs. We’ve all had a very tiring day. Best if you get some sleep. Tomorrow...well, tomorrow will be hard.”
Lady Caroline leaned over to Sir James and squeezed his hand. He neither looked up, nor smiled, nor returned the pressure. He was a man utterly alone with this thoughts.
After the dreadful day and miserable evening I had spent, I needed some recompense before I went to sleep—and, as I have often found before exams, the best way to come afresh to a problem is to take one’s mind off it completely for a few hours. And I have never found anything that takes my mind off things as effectively as the pursuit of sex with other men.
Morgan was my quarry, of course; his conquest was the reason why I had accepted the invitation to Drekeham Hall in the first place, figuring that the strange surroundings and our enforced proximity would lead to the long-desired outcome. We’d already done the foreplay, in the cupboard and in the bathroom, where he had come down my throat. But this was nothing compared to what I had planned—and, murder or no murder, tonight was the night he was going to get what was coming to him.
Morgan had been half-asleep for the last hour before bedtime, bored to death by
the conversation, warmed by the wine and port and exhausted by a trying day. Sir James and Lady Caroline would occasionally look over to see him nodding off in his chair, while poor, neglected Belinda tinkled aimlessly on the piano or tried to engage Lady Diana in girlish small talk, for which she showed no inclination. The prospective parents-in-law didn’t think much of Boy Morgan’s intellectual abilities, that was clear, but it was impossible to dislike him. Dull at times he may have been, but I have never found a truer heart.
When we rose to retire and said our good-nights, Morgan perked up, and took the stairs two at a time, as I had seen him do so often at Cambridge. “Christ, that was a boring bloody evening,” he said. “I wish we could have gone to the pub.”
“Fear not, Boy. The night is young.”
He almost ran along the landing to our room; I was in hot pursuit.
“I say, I hope you don’t think this is absolutely dreadful, but I’ve borrowed a bottle of whisky from Old Man Eagle’s cellar. Burroughs brought it up earlier. Sound man, Burroughs.”
“Sound indeed.” How useful: another pretext for Morgan to “lose control” of himself. The bottle was neatly tucked inside a pitcher that stood on the dressing table; Morgan poured shots into two tooth glasses and handed me one.
“Here’s how,” he said, knocking his back and replenishing it instantly. I feigned a swig, but took only a sip. He didn’t notice; he was concerned only with achieving a desirable degree of intoxication. What it is to have inhibitions, I thought; little wonder there are so many ruined livers.
“Can’t wait to get out of this bloody suit of armor,” he said, undoing his bow tie with a smart tug and fiddling with his collar studs. “Fellow can’t breathe with all this on.”
This sounded like an invitation to me, so I stepped up to face him.
“Here. Let me. It’s easier.” Morgan’s hands fell down by his sides as I undid the studs at the back and front of his collar and dropped them neatly on the dressing table.
“That’s better,” he said. “Hot as hell in that drawing room.”
“Better make you comfortable, then.” I slipped his dinner jacket off his shoulders, and allowed it to fall straight from his arms into a heap at his feet.
“Mitch...”
“Yes, Boy?”
“What we’re doing...”
“Mmm?”
“It’s not... I mean you don’t think...”
“Don’t worry. Just enjoy yourself.”
“But I mean, I’m not...”
“’Course you’re not. I understand that.”
“Thing is, though...”
He was silent for a while; his hair, which had been unattractively slicked back all evening, now fell dark and oily over his brow.
“What?”
“Oh, dash it,” he said, with wonderfully impetuous sportiness—and kissed me full on the mouth. One hand held the back of my neck as his tongue parted my lips; the other squeezed the muscles of my upper arm. I guess that whatever argument Boy had been having with himself had been resolved in my favor.
Thus far in our “courtship,” I had been the hunter, Morgan the game. Now, to my surprise and delight, the tables were turned. Not content with kissing me as if his life depended on it, Morgan tore off my jacket, which joined his on the floor, and started unbuttoning my shirt. He wasn’t terribly proficient with buttons and studs, but I found his hurried fumbling much more exciting than any slicker performance would have been. I managed to get out of collar and tie, and my shirt fell open to the waist. I’m naturally hairy on my torso, and have been since my mid-teens—and Morgan, whose chest was smooth apart from a small growth of hair in the valley of his chest, dived straight in with his tongue. He rubbed his face and mouth against my chest like a cat making up to its owner.
I pulled his shirttails out of his trousers, then drew the entire garment over his head, exposing the bumps and curves of a long, elegant spine surrounded by the muscles of a champion rower. They rippled as Morgan moved his arms to free himself for further exploration of my torso; by now he had worked his way down to my stomach and was bent at a right angle from the waist. With him in this position I could only think of one thing—fucking his virgin ass—but I decided to let him maintain control for the time being. He seemed so hell-bent on what he was doing that it would have been unkind to stop him.
After making love to my navel for a minute, he broke for air and stood up, allowing me a full view of his beautiful, athletic physique. His face and neck were flushed, partly from the whisky, partly from contact with my body hair, which was wiry in places. Saliva glistened around his mouth, spread by the wet whorls of hair on my chest and stomach. The front of his trousers were stretched by a very obvious hard-on.
“Please strip for me, Mitch. I want to see you.”
I obliged, and, even with braces and buttons to negotiate, was naked within a minute. I was every bit as hard as Morgan, my prick standing out from a thick bush of hair, a drop of stickiness just appearing at the slit. Morgan stared at it as if hypnotized, preparing himself to take what, for him, was a very large step indeed—the step that would turn him from a jolly good chap and a Cambridge rower into a cocksucker.
He took the step.
In a flash he was on his knees, smothering my cock with kisses, determined, it seemed, to leave no part of it unloved. He started licking it, pulling gently on my balls, doing the things to me that he had done to himself—and enjoyed—in private. He already knew how good another mouth can feel down there, so, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he opened wide and closed his lips around my cockhead. When he looked up at me, his big trusting eyes full of questions, I almost shot my load right there. Had I not already had such a tiring day, I might well have done so.
I caressed his head, playing with his thick black hair, gently drawing him further down onto me. I did not expect him to become an instant expert at a practice that it had taken me many months to perfect, but he made a pretty good attempt for a beginner, running his lips down to the halfway mark, but pulling back when he felt my prick entering the back of his mouth. I had no desire to put him off cocksucking by making him gag on his first attempt, so I contented myself with only half fucking his mouth. Practice would make perfect.
I noticed that, while eating my dick, Morgan had released his own cock from his pants and was slowly masturbating himself. This was too much to resist, so, pulling out of his mouth, I knelt in front of him and took him in my hands. We kissed again, and I pulled him to the floor and straight into the 69 position. I was totally naked; he was shirtless, but still in his trousers and shoes, his cock sticking out of the fly.
There was a real danger that we were going to come too soon; I didn’t want Morgan to find release before I had broken him in more fully. I stopped sucking him and rolled him onto his back. He was reluctant to relinquish my cock, but in this position had little choice but to allow me to undress him, pulling off one shoe, one sock, another shoe, another sock.... He extended his legs and lifted his ass to allow me to draw off his trousers, then his underpants, and finally I had him naked before me. I think he had a good idea of what was coming next.
“I say, Mitch, I’m not sure...”
I had an infallible trick for allaying the fears of any young man about to discover his anus for the first time. Diving down between his parted cheeks, I began to lick his hole, probing my tongue in gently but firmly. This usually comes as a shock, but the pleasure that follows immediately in its wake is a persuasive argument. Morgan, whose fears in this area seemed very slight, was soon moaning and lifting his hips from the carpet.
His ass was as beautiful as the rest of him, pink and clean and juicy, as sweet as a plum. I ate it until I judged that he was as relaxed and aroused as he could be. Then I pulled back and looked him in the eyes.
“I want to fuck you, Morgan,” I said.
“Oh...”
“Do you want me to?”
He couldn’t actually frame the word Yes, but I under
stood that the long “Mmmmm” and the further opening of his legs were answer enough.
There was no point in delaying; I didn’t want his willingness, or his hard-on, to subside. So I reached up to the dressing table, found the pot of brilliantine with which Morgan had dressed his hair before dinner, took a large blob on the end of two fingers, and worked it liberally around his hole. It opened up and practically swallowed my hand.
Smearing another blob of cream onto my prick, I lined it up with the target, applied the slightest of forward pressure, and waited. At first there was resistance; Morgan had seen for himself how big my cock is and perhaps feared that, if half its length had nearly made him gag, the whole thing could do mischief to his insides. But then the heat of flesh against flesh worked its old magic, and his asshole opened up and engulfed me.
Once the head was in, I wanted to pile-drive into him, but proceeded with caution; I’ve had lovers myself who rushed this crucial stage of the journey and ruined the rest of the ride. So I allowed him to get used to feeling something inside him, and rested there, tossing him gently. He had softened slightly when I entered him; I wanted him to be hard before I continued. This didn’t take long.
“Oh, God,” he said, as new sensations came thick and fast, “this is incredible.”
“Just wait,” I said, inching forward. He held his breath, but remained as stiff as a post. I judged it safe to proceed, and slowly pressed ahead until I was up to the hilt in his anus. Morgan’s face registered amazement, and he was sweating—but not for nothing had he spent all those hours training to withstand physical exertion. His stomach muscles rippled, he breathed deeply and regularly, and I felt his ass tightening and loosening around me.
“Okay, Mitch,” he said, with a businesslike tone that almost made me laugh, “you can fuck me now.”
And I did. I fucked him rotten. I fucked him on his back, with his legs over my shoulders, staring down into his eyes. I turned him over and pulled him onto all fours, and fucked him from behind, pounding into him as hard as I have into anyone. I fucked him on his side, one leg held in the air as his cock drizzled the carpet with juice. Finally I dragged him to the bed, lay him down, placed a couple of cushions under his ass and began the long ride to my goal.