The Back Passage

by James Lear

  I wanted him to come first; I wanted him to know the incomparable feeling of coming while a man is fucking you, of feeling him inside you after you’ve come, when you think you can no longer stand the sensation but don’t want it to stop. This was easily managed. After that initial brief softening, Morgan remained as solid as a rock throughout the fuck. Occasionally he tugged on his cock, but stopped short of anything decisive. Now, however, I grabbed his wrist, placed his hand on his dick and moved it up and down a few times. I like to see a man masturbate himself while I fuck him; I like to imagine that he is feeling what I am feeling.

  Morgan was quick on the uptake, and picked up the pace of his wanking to match my fucking. It didn’t take long before he swore, arched his spine, threw his head back, and started spurting all over his chest and belly; I had to grip like a jockey to stay on the ride. I fucked him as hard as I could, pinning him to the bed while he bellowed in the last convulsion of his orgasm—then I kept on fucking him, ten strokes, fifteen, twenty—until I could hold back no longer, and, burying myself as deeply in him as I could, filled him with come.

  He held me in place with his legs, which were wrapped around my butt; only when I had gone soft did he relinquish me, and when he did he grasped my head and kissed me as if he would have sucked the breath from me.

  I figured my seduction had been a success.

  We slept naked that night in each other’s arms.

  VI

  EVERY GREAT DETECTIVE NEEDS A LOYAL ASSISTANT, AND after I’d spent the night “training” Boy Morgan he was every bit as loyal as I could wish. As sidekicks go, he wasn’t the brightest—but I comforted myself that even Dr. Watson wasn’t always quick off the mark. And Morgan had a great advantage over Watson: he was rapidly learning to take cock up his ass and down his throat, as he demonstrated at first light.

  We were just finished, lying naked and covered in semen on sheets that were equally distressed, when there was a knock at the door and, before we had time to tidy ourselves, Burroughs, the butler, entered with a tray. Like all proper English butlers, he was generally imperturbable, though I did notice that his pupils doubled in size as he took in my hairy body and Morgan’s smooth one.

  “Thank you, Burroughs,” I said, hastily arranging a damp sheet around my genitals. “If you’d like to put the tray down...”

  Morgan, shielding himself with a hand fore and aft, nipped off to the bathroom, whooping as he went. Burroughs, nodding his head in assent (and casting one furtive look at Morgan’s disappearing rear), placed the tray, containing tea, on the table.

  “Your breakfast will be ready in half an hour, sir.” He showed no sign of leaving.

  “Thank you, Burroughs.”

  “If that’s all, sir...”

  “I think so, thank you.”

  But still he stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes cast down, fighting the desire to stare. I assumed that, if I gave him a flash, he’d be on his way, so I obligingly swung my legs over the side of the bed, allowing him a full view of my hairy ass and my soft cock and everything in between. Anyway, I was parched; and, since living in England, I had learned to appreciate a cup of tea first thing in the morning. I poured; Burroughs remained rooted to the spot.

  “Sorry, Burroughs, was there something?”

  The poor old man was struggling against a lifetime’s training, which told him to make himself scarce, and an overwhelming desire to stay and stare. Surely he didn’t think that, while Morgan was in the shower...

  “Yes, sir. I must speak to you.” I could see from his honest, aged face just how much it cost him to say those words. I took pity on him and grabbed a robe; I figured that, if I covered myself up, Burroughs might find it easier to concentrate on the essential things. Then I remembered his hints of the night before, when we were finishing our port; I had been so intent on getting Morgan to bed that I had not, at the time, taken advantage of a witness who was ripe for questioning. If I was going to become a great detective, I would have to learn to master my own libido.

  “Go ahead, Burroughs,” I said, lying back on the bed and indicating a chair. He perched on the edge of the seat. “Will you have a cup of tea? Looks like you need one.”

  “I shouldn’t, sir, but under the circumstances...” His hand shook as he poured milk and tea into the cup, from which he sipped like a nervous old lady. Something had rattled his composure, and it wasn’t just the sight of two young postcoital athletes.

  “So, Burroughs. What’s on your mind?”

  “I don’t like to say, sir...”

  “Take your time.”

  “I’m so worried about Sir James, you see.”

  “Of course, Burroughs. Sir James had a very distressing day. We’re all worried for him.”

  Whatever he wanted to tell me, he hoped I would guess before he was obliged to say it. Such was the loyalty of servants at that time, I believe Burroughs would have covered up far more than a suspicious death if his own self-interest was not threatened.

  “Indeed, sir. Unpleasantness of any sort is so...unwelcome.” He sipped his tea again, watching over the top of his glasses. Morgan was singing and splashing around in the shower, absolutely on top of the world; getting fucked suited him.

  “Please excuse Boy,” I said. “He’s in high spirits.”

  “Apparently so, sir.”

  “Morgan is a great friend.”

  “Sir.”

  “And of course I would be terribly distressed if anything were to happen to him.”

  “Yes...” Burroughs rested his cup and saucer in his lap and stared out the window.

  “Awful to see a pal in a scrape, isn’t it, Burroughs?”

  “Yes...”

  “I mean, if Morgan got into trouble, I’d do anything to help him out. I wouldn’t care if I had to break a few rules in order to do so. That’s the meaning of friendship, I’d say.”

  There was silence. Burroughs’s eyes were wet; I’d hit the mark.

  “Burroughs, is there something you need to tell me?” A tear rolled down his cheek, and he carefully replaced his cup on the tray.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes with an immaculate handkerchief. “It’s been a terrible strain, all of this.”

  I moved closer to him, just as Boy came bounding out of the bathroom, wet-haired and completely naked, save for a towel slung negligently over his shoulder.

  “Hello! He still here? Oh, good, tea. I say, this cup’s been...”

  “Morgan,” I said, “be a good fellow and just sit quietly, would you? Mr. Burroughs has something to tell us.”

  “Oh, rather. Sorry about that.” He threw himself onto the bed, practically bouncing me into Burroughs’s lap in the process, and sprawled out.

  “And Boy, old chap?”

  “Yes, Mitch?”

  “If you could just cover yourself up for a moment. You’re rather distracting like that.”

  “’Course. Don’t mind me.” He pulled a corner of the sheet between his legs to make a sort of loincloth—though Morgan was too active, and too easily distracted, for this to stay in place for long. Soon his cock was lolling out in full view again.

  “Now, Burroughs, go on. We’re listening. You can trust Boy as you’d trust me.”

  “Oh, sir, I don’t know where to begin...”

  I could see this going on all morning, and we were losing precious time. At the rate the police were working, Meeks would be hanged before Burroughs had stammered out his concerns.

  “Is it something to do with Mr. Walworth’s death?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s got us all at sixes and sevens...”

  “And you’re worried that the police have the wrong man.”

  “By Jove, sir, however did you guess? That’s just it. I’m very much afraid they’ve made a mistake. With the greatest respect to Sir James, of course, and the local officers...”

  “Of course they’ve got the wrong man. Everyone can see that Meeks is innocent. But there’s
no point in telling them that; it suits everyone to get this cleared up as quickly as possible, and as Meeks isn’t making any attempt to defend himself...”

  “Oh, the stupid boy, the stupid, stupid boy,” Burroughs blurted. “What on earth does he hope to gain by—” He checked himself, unwilling to overstep a certain mark. I would have to play this witness carefully, lest he bolt altogether. Leaning forward, and allowing my robe to fall open to the stomach, I switched into confidential mode.

  “What we need, you see, if we’re to save Meeks’s neck, is evidence of some kind to prove that he was not at the scene of the crime, wherever that may have been, at the time of Mr. Walworth’s death.”

  “An alibi!” Morgan said, full of enthusiasm. “That’s the thing!”

  “That’s just it, sirs,” Burroughs said, uncertain whether to look down the front of my robe or to feast his eyes on Morgan’s reexposed nakedness. “Poor Charlie Meeks could not have had anything to do with Mr. Walworth’s death.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know where he was all yesterday afternoon.”

  “Indeed. And why didn’t you say so at the time, when the police were here?”

  “He wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “I take it Meeks has something to hide.”

  Burroughs was silent again, wrestling with some big confession. I lay back on my pillow and, by crooking one leg, gave him an uninterrupted view of my nether regions. Burroughs stared, licked his lips and continued; we had found the key to unlock his evidence.

  “Everyone does in this house.”

  This was the most indiscreet thing Burroughs had said in his entire life, and I noticed that, while he said it, his eyes were boring into Boy Morgan’s crotch. Boy had noticed too, and thrust his hips ever so slightly forward. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as stupid as I suspected.

  “That’s very interesting, Burroughs. Yourself included, I suppose.”

  “Well, sir...”

  “How, for instance, are you so certain of Meeks’s whereabouts yesterday afternoon, when the murder was committed?”

  “I make it my business to know where my staff are.”

  “And where was Meeks, exactly?”

  “Oh, dear...”

  Burroughs was clamming up again; Morgan ran a hand over his stomach, where the little patch of hair that led down to his groin was still damp, then pressed the heel of his palm into his pubis, making his cock jump. Burroughs, never letting his eyes wander, continued.

  “He was in his room all afternoon.”

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “I...”

  “You were with him, I take it.”

  “Certainly not!” Burroughs looked quite shocked. Boy closed his eyes and spread his legs.

  “That is to say, I know that he was most definitely there. I could swear to it.”

  “You mean?”

  “Yes. I was watching him.”

  “Watching?”

  “I have to keep an eye on the boys sometimes. It’s essential to maintain discipline belowstairs.”

  “Of course.” If this little white lie helped Burroughs, it was fine by me—but it was clear that we had a Peeping Tom on our hands.

  “Over the years, I’ve installed a...well, you could call it a surveillance system throughout the staff quarters. It’s most necessary.”

  “And how does it work?”

  “I really don’t think...” Burroughs began. Morgan rolled over onto his stomach, crooking one leg at ninety degrees. His butt looked good enough to eat. (I well knew that it was.)

  “All the servants’ rooms are at the back of the house, you see,” Burroughs said, in a quiet monotone. “They’re arranged over three floors, connected by a spiral staircase. Mrs. Ramage’s girls are on the top floor; my young men are on the lower two. You understand, of course, that this is a very problematic situation.”

  “Hence the need for constant surveillance.”

  “Precisely. By a rather ingenious arrangement of holes drilled through the walls, I have enabled myself to carry out spot checks on the whereabouts and activities of the indoor staff. It saves no end of trouble.”

  “I see. And do they know about this?”

  “Well, that’s a very...” Morgan lifted his hips off the bed and pushed his cock back between his legs. It was halfhard—which, considering the workout it had had in the last 24 hours, surprised me and delighted Burroughs.

  “Yes, they know. It’s better for all concerned to understand the situation. That means that if anyone is caught out of line, it’s a simple disciplinary matter.”

  “How does that work, Burroughs?”

  “You must understand, sir, that I take a fatherly interest in my young men.” Fatherly, my ass, I thought, but kept it to myself. “I don’t wish any of them to get into trouble, but I’m afraid the proximity of Mrs. Ramage’s girls is sometimes too much of a temptation. Well, they’re only men, after all.”

  “I see. And there’s been a certain amount of corridor creeping, has there?”

  “It has been known. Take young Hibbert, for instance, the second footman. He’s a terror. I’ve told him a thousand times that the upper floor is out of bounds, but he will not listen.”

  “And what happens when he’s caught?”

  “I have to punish him, of course.”

  “And how did you catch him? Do you have spy holes into the girls’ quarters as well?”

  “Good heavens, no! Perish the thought.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Ramage does.”

  “No, sir, I don’t think so. But we hear things. We learn things.”

  “I’m sorry, Burroughs, but I’m confused. If you don’t actually see things, then what’s the use of your spy system?”

  Burroughs was flustered. The masquerade of “surveillance” had crumbled. He started clearing away tea things. Fortunately, Morgan chose just that moment to roll over onto his back; his cock lay across his thigh, pulsing slightly. Burroughs found the sight calming, and sat down again.

  “The thing is, sir, that I’m a very indulgent father to my boys. I can’t find it in my heart to turn them out. That Hibbert, for instance. He can wind me round his little finger.”

  “So if he’s naughty with one of the girls, he lets you...play with him?”

  “Certainly not, sir.” Burroughs sounded wounded but did not seem anxious to leave—especially now that Boy was gently masturbating himself.

  “What, then? Come on, Burroughs. I have to know.”

  “He lets me...see.”

  “See?”

  “See him. On his bed. Through the spy hole.”

  “I see.”

  “And he’s very kind.”

  “You mean he puts on a show for you.”

  “Precisely.”

  “You like to watch, don’t you, Burroughs?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you like watching what Morgan’s doing now, Burroughs?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you like to see what Morgan and I were doing earlier?”

  Burroughs’s mouth was dry; he couldn’t say the word yes, but he didn’t need to.

  “Tell me everything I want to know, Burroughs, and I’ll suck his cock while you watch.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And I’ll make him come for you.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Anything else you’d like to see?”

  “Perhaps...”

  “Yes?”

  “If the young gentleman would put his shoes and socks on.”

  “Morgan?”

  Morgan grinned—the filthiest grin I have ever seen in my life—and hastily obliged. I had to agree with Burroughs: there was something delightful about this obscene state of near nakedness. Morgan lay back on the bed and lifted his legs in the air, showing off his footwear.

  “Go on, Burroughs.”

  Burroughs cleared his throat and began.

  “It all started, honestly, as a way of keeping the indoor s
taff under control. We’d had a couple of scandals in Drekeham Hall after the war, you see; girls had to be sent away, and Mrs. Ramage was quick to point the finger at my staff. She was right, of course, but I didn’t have the heart to dismiss any of them, so I agreed to take measures to curb any such activities in the future. I installed spy holes in all the rooms—all of them positioned to give me a clear view of the bed and the basin. All I had to do was run up and down the stairs, checking on each room, and I could be certain that my staff were where they should be, when they should be. As for the girls’ quarters, Mrs. Ramage took to patrolling the corridors. She has very sharp hearing, Mrs. Ramage does.

  “And for a while, it worked very well. We had no more unpleasantness, and Mrs. Ramage was content. She became lazy, trusting. But then, of course, it became so difficult to find staff who could be trusted in the way that one would like. Things started to become so awkward.”

  “What happened, Burroughs? Tell me, and I’ll suck his cock.”

  The words tumbled out of him. “Well we had some dreadful young man who was up and down those stairs every night, and he was very bad for morale. Taught the others bad ways. But I couldn’t turn him out; he was the best footman I ever had, and the family liked him so much. He was connected with Sir James’s regiment. No question of dismissal. But what could I do? I had to maintain discipline. Oh, my goodness, sir, that’s the way.”

  I had just taken Morgan’s cock to the back of my throat; Morgan was rubbing my head and moaning in delight. With all this going on, it was hard to concentrate on Burroughs’s confession—but concentrate I did, I am proud to say. I mumbled some encouragement, though my mouth was full.

  “And so I’m afraid I left myself open to corruption of the worst sort. The young man in question persuaded me that he was being careful with the girls, and that there was no chance of any unwanted results, if you understand me, and said that if I would keep quiet and not cause trouble he’d let me watch him when he was alone in his room. And so I did. He was a lovely-looking lad, about your height, sir, and very strongly built, and I could see immediately why he was so popular with the ladies. I believe that he enjoyed putting on a show for me. He always made sure that everything was clearly visible, but he never gave the slightest indication that he knew I was watching. He’d do anything, sir. And the worse his behavior upstairs in the women’s quarters became, the more extravagant his performances for me. Dressing up, sir. Putting things up his...well, you know where. Passing water into his chamber pot. And always finishing up by relieving himself right in front of me.”