by Lear, James
“The American.”
Well, apparently my cock had made a lasting impression.
“Sergeant.”
“You want to join me?” He moved aside, so that I could see his prick sliding out of the young man’s ass.
“Not right now. I need something else.”
“You can’t fuck me, if that’s what you had in mind. I don’t do that.”
The sergeant, like many of his type I had met in Edinburgh, was remarkably single-minded.
“I don’t want to fuck you.” This was a lie, but now was no time for honesty. “I need your help.”
“Oh, aye. To do what, precisely?”
“Someone tried to kill me.”
“Fuck off, man. You’re drunk.”
“I’ve never been more sober in my life. Dickinson—”
“What about Dickinson?” The sergeant’s cock slipped out of the young man’s ass; the empty hole gaped, and the boy looked up to see what was going on. Seeing not one but two men standing over him, he smiled, and starting playing with himself, caressing his balls and fingering his ass.
“He’s a killer.”
“Bollocks.”
“He murdered that man on the train—”
“He did not.”
“He tried to kill Hugo Taylor, and me, and he’s threatened to kill my friends.”
“Prove it.”
“Come with me.”
He looked from me to the boy, from the boy to me, as if struggling between pleasure and duty. I could take no chances, so I grabbed him by the cock—it was still rock hard—and led him from the room, jerking him gently as we crossed the corridor.
“Well, you’ve got my attention now, mate. What’s this all about?”
“Come with me.”
I led him into the other room, where the stalls were still in use.
“Look in the central one.”
“Why?”
“Tell me if you recognize what’s there.”
The sergeant, thank God, lacked manners, and barged up to the stalls, pushing people out of the way and hauling one man straight out of Bertrand’s ass. They were about to remonstrate, but when they saw the size of the sergeant, they thought better of it.
“What about it? It’s an arsehole.”
“Look closer. Doesn’t it look familiar?”
“Come on, man. You don’t expect me to recognize a bum.”
People were forming small, concerned groups around the edge of the room.
“You should. You’ve fucked it.”
The sergeant knelt before the stall, the asshole at eye level. He felt it. He touched it. Finally, he tasted it, delving around with his tongue.
“It’s that French lad.”
Was it my imagination, or did Bertrand’s asshole twitch in nationalistic indignation?
“Exactly.”
“And what the fuck is he doing here?”
“He was abducted and drugged. As was I.”
A couple of masked revelers were moving toward the door. The sergeant sprang to his feet.
“Stay right the fuck where you are,” he snarled. There was a gasp. He strode toward the door and kicked it shut.
“Time to shed a little light on matters.” He flicked a switch, and the room was fully illuminated. The partygoers cowered, trying to hide.
Dickinson addressed the room. “I thought this was a straightforward fuck party. But my friend here tells me it’s something quite different. Now, does anyone have anything to say?” A couple of men advanced toward him, as if they thought they might get past him. The sergeant picked up a chair and smashed it over their heads. They fell to the ground, their cocks lolling over their thighs.
“Anyone else?” The odds were now considerably reduced. “I thought not. Now, let’s see what we’re dealing with. Unmask.”
Nobody seemed in a great hurry to reveal their true identities, apart from the sergeant and me. We both whipped off the horrible silk strips and threw them on the floor. His face was angry, brutal—but, I thought, honest.
“My name is Sergeant Robert Langland of the Scots Guards,” he announced, glaring at the cringing figures, their dicks shriveling quickly. “Our motto is ‘nemo me impune lacessit,’ which, roughly translated, means fuck with me at your own peril. Now, show your faces.”
He picked up a broken chair leg and brandished it like a saber. Nobody doubted that he would use it.
One by one the masks dropped to the floor, and a sorrier bunch of sex fiends I have never seen. Hair was wet with sweat, plastered down or sticking up; I was instantly reminded of Laurel and Hardy. The men were of various ages and states of preservation; some were young and firm, others were running to fat. The confidence with which they’d assaulted those caged mouths and asses had evaporated.
“Well, well, well,” said Langland. “What have we here? Your Eminence.”
One of the larger, older gentlemen buried his face in his hands.
“And the shadow home secretary, I believe.”
“Oh, God,” sighed a middle-aged man with a very pendulous pair of balls, “how did you know?”
“You never look at the faces of the men who serve you—but we see yours. That’s one of the advantages of a uniform. Now, gentlemen, you have a choice. You can continue resistance, and be sure that, if you survive, your careers will be over in the morning. Or you can help us. What is it to be?” He slapped the chair leg into his hand as he strode around the room. His cock was no longer fully erect, but was still standing out from his thighs, swaying as he walked. Eyes were generally fixed on the chair leg, but occasionally flicked downward.
Langland stopped. “So, Bishop, what’s it to be? We look to you for a lead.”
“I… I… Well, really… Oh, dear…”
“Good man.” Langland clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, how about joining me in some good works, and freeing these poor souls from bondage.”
“But how?”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Hey! Mitchell!”
He had remembered my name; I was flattered. “Yes?”
“There’s a fire extinguisher in the hall. Go get it.”
“Yes, sir!”
It was a large, metal contraption, so heavy I could barely drag it along the floor. Langland lifted it in both hands, the muscles standing out in his arms, and raised it above his head.
“Stand clear, lads,” he said. “We’re going in.”
The fire extinguisher came down with a smash on the end of the stalls, snapping the padlock and twisting the metal bar almost to 90 degrees. Langland moved to the other end and delivered a second blow. The rest of us moved in to pull the wretched structure to pieces and release its sorry captives.
I will not dwell on the condition in which we found them. Those who were conscious were in great pain, their arms and legs contorted into awkward positions, their mouths and asses bruised and sore. Others were unconscious but still breathing—to them I gave my most urgent attention. One was beyond help. The Bishop knelt over his body, deep in prayer.
XIV
BERTRAND, THANK GOD, WAS AMONG THE CONSCIOUS, although he was in great pain and terrible distress. I comforted him as best I could, holding him as he clung, panting, sweating, and wild-eyed, to my naked body. I kissed him and rocked him like a baby, wondering if he would ever recover from this nightmare.
Langland was stomping around the room with a look of fury on his face, his mouth contorted in a snarl, his eyes wet with tears. “Wait till I get my hands on that fucking bastard,” he said. “He told me nothing of this—nothing.”
“Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
We put our masks back on—a necessary precaution—and left the shamed churchmen, MPs, and whatever else they were to look after Bertrand and the others.
Out on the landing, Langland moved silently, like a huge cat. He signaled to the stairs, and we descended swiftly, both barefooted. I couldn’t help admiring his huge, solid buttocks as he went before me; I remembere
d how they’d rippled as he pumped into Bertrand’s ass on the train.
Looking down the stairwell, I could see the entrance hall where Marchmont had greeted me; we must now be on the floor above the reception room where we had sat sipping gin only a few hours ago. He had said that the place would be transformed; how right he was!
On this floor there were more rooms—bedrooms, I supposed, for members and their guests—four doors leading off the landing. Anything could be going on behind those doors, and I shuddered at the thought of more nightmarish contraptions like the one we had just demolished upstairs—but Langland beckoned me on.
The party was in full swing in the reception room. Thirty or 40 guests, some fully dressed, others in costume, circulated and talked. They were being served drinks by three naked waiters bearing trays. I recognized them, of course: McDonald, Ken, and the little redhead, Sergeant Langland’s brothers in arms. So this was how the guards supplemented their notoriously low wages. Hands swooped in from above to take drinks, and from below to caress cocks.
These details aside, it could have been any cocktail party, anywhere in London. There were even a few ladies present—some of whom, I suspected, may not have been quite as female as they appeared. But there, to my astonishment, was Kiki Preston, Prince George’s companion—and, yes, there in the corner, talking to Hugo Taylor, was the royal person himself.
How much did they know about what was going on upstairs?
Marchmont drifted around like a busy bee, gorgeously arrayed in a Chinese silk kimono, glitter on his cheeks and his eyes outlined in kohl. He was certainly the oldest of the Bright Young Things.
Langland grabbed a tray of drinks from the sideboard and motioned to me to do likewise; if we could pose as staff, we might not arouse suspicion. As I circulated, I was groped, grabbed, and poked from all angles. Even Prince George weighed my prick in his hand while taking a glass of champagne, as if he was testing a piece of fruit before buying. Well, that would be something to tell the grandchildren I would never have. Beats dancing with a man who’s danced with a girl who’s danced with the Prince of Wales: his brother squeezed my dick.
While I was being royally manhandled, Langland was circulating through the room and, between handing out drinks, whispering in his subordinates’ ears.
Suddenly, without any signal being given, the lights went out. Several people screamed. I heard a scuffle and a thud, and the lights came back on. Langland and his three soldiers were standing with their backs to the door. Marchmont lay unconscious on the ground—and Langland was holding a key.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, in his gruff Scottish accent, “please do not panic. There is plenty of drink to go round. Enjoy yourselves.”
He pushed me out the door. When we were all on the landing, he turned the key in the lock.
“That’ll keep them out of mischief,” he chuckled. “Now, lads, this way.”
They disappeared down the stairs without making a noise, and were quickly lost to sight.
It was time for me to find some clothes. There were enough of them strewn around the landing, hanging from the banisters and even from the dusty chandelier, for me to put together some kind of ensemble. It might not have passed muster in Mayfair, but here at the Rookery it would do. Bizarre I may have looked—a pair of black dress pants, far too large for me, held up with an Old Harrovian tie, a dinner jacket with no shirt, just a stiff shirt front held in place with a celluloid collar, bare feet—but I was no stranger than some of the other partygoers.
Where had Langland gone, and what had he told his men to do? I had not told him of Joseph, and the danger I feared for Morgan and the rest of my friends. Perhaps Langland had double-crossed me. I felt horribly powerless. Now that the excitement of my escape had worn off, I was groggy and nauseated. I would have been no use at all in a fight.
Holding on to the banister, I made my way slowly down to the ground floor, ignoring the thumps and cries from the reception room. The only way out of there was by the window—and I didn’t think many of that crowd would be willing to risk their necks, or spill a drop of blue blood, in the attempt.
And there, standing in the hallway looking somewhat perplexed, was the one person I wanted to see above all others: Morgan. His brow was furrowed, as I had so often seen it when he was wrestling with some (to him) complex problem. Woozy as I felt, it made me smile. I ran down the rest of the stairs with a lighter heart.
“Morgan, thank God.”
“Mitch!” He looked up at me, this time with real concern on his face. “Oh no—”
“What is it?”
His eyes widened, and his mouth worked, but no words came out.
“Shit, Boy, have they got Belinda?” I came closer, put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s the matter? You must tell me? What is it?”
And then, stepping from behind the curtains like the bogeyman in a child’s nightmare, came Joseph. He was holding a gun, and the gun was trained on Morgan’s temple.
“Ah, Mr. Mitchell.” Joseph’s dark face was illuminated by a truly diabolical light, and I half expected to see cloven feet, rather than the heavy boots that composed his entire wardrobe. “You will follow me.”
“I’m sorry, Mitch,” said Morgan. “He overpowered me.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m—”
“No talking!” snapped Joseph, pushing Morgan toward the final set of stairs that led to the basement. “You come with us, or it will be bad for your friend.”
I complied. Joseph ushered us both downstairs, the gun at our backs.
The basement was damp and filthy. Crates of wine and spirits were stacked against walls black with age-old dirt and mold. Candles burned on crude sconces in the wall, casting mad shadows as they flickered in drafts from unseen sources. It was the sort of setting I often dreamed about for the climax to some longed-for mystery, complete with brooding villain. But now, in reality, it was less appealing—even given the fact that my villain was handsome, hairy, and naked. I just wanted to run—out of the cellar, out of the house, out of London, away from all this danger and cruelty and death…
Joseph waved us into a corner with his gun. We stood together, Morgan and I, both shaking with fear. His hand found mine, and we clasped each other for comfort. If we were going to die, at least we would die together.
Time seemed to stop. The basement was silent except for the occasional drip of water, the fizz of the candle wicks, and our breathing. There was the faintest rumble of traffic from the street above. Any second now I expected the calm to be shattered by the crack of a gunshot. Which of us would die first?
Joseph stood there, the gun in his left hand, his cock in the other, idly playing with himself. The power pleased him; he was at least half hard.
“Two little boys,” he said. “Two nasty interfering little queers.”
“I say,” said Morgan, “that’s not on.”
“Shut up!” Joseph stepped toward us, waving the gun in Morgan’s face. His cock was getting harder; this was clearly much more to his taste than screwing Daisy Athenasy, or acting as Dickinson’s paid thug. Joseph craved power in his own right, and that might buy us time. For what? I didn’t know, but every second of life seemed precious.
“Please, sir,” I said, thinking to play to his vanity, “don’t kill us. We’ll do anything.”
“I know what you queers like,” he said, stepping back and waving his hips around, so that his huge cock swung from side to side, making a huge black shadow on the floor. “It’s this, isn’t it?”
I felt this was stating the obvious, but this was no time for smart remarks.
“Oooh, yes, sir,” I said, licking my lips. “Let me taste it.”
Morgan was stealing sidelong glances at me, obviously thinking that terror had made me flip my lid. I reassured him with a squeeze of the hand.
“You want my big cock, boy?”
I’d heard these lines before, usually from men trying desperately hard to convince th
emselves that they are really normal, and that their “use” of queers doesn’t make them queer themselves. It disgusts me, in the normal course of events—but now it seemed to offer some hope.
“Please,” I said.
“You want to suck it? You want to put your lips around it?”
“Oh, yes.”
This was having the desired effect, as Joseph was now paying more attention to his cock and less to his gun. Perhaps the blood that was flooding into his dick, bringing it to full erection, was starving his brain of oxygen. Whatever the reasons, he had been effectively sidetracked. I got to my knees and opened my mouth. Morgan, thank God, had understood the plan, and joined me on the filthy floor.
We started kissing Joseph’s huge club of a dick, licking his balls, taking him into our mouths in turn, generally behaving like a couple of dogs who are pleased to see their master. Joseph stood there, his feet planted a yard apart, and accepted our adoration as his due. Every so often he would run the gun over our heads, or around our mouths; I prayed to God that the safety catch was on, or this was going to be one hell of a messy blow job.
Every so often, my tongue made contact with Morgan’s, and we stole a few kisses. They might be our last…
A splintering crash, a vertical pillar of light, a flurry of movement, and the thud of feet on the dirt floor. Joseph spun around on the balls of his feet, waving the gun wildly at a figure crouching on the ground—it sprang up, and a leg shot out and knocked the gun from Joseph’s hand, sending it spinning across the floor to land in a filthy puddle. Joseph yelped with pain and surprise. There was no time to lose. Morgan and I rushed him from behind, leaped at his back, and fell headlong in the muck, with Joseph struggling beneath us.
Who was our deliverer?
Sergeant Langland, of course. Through what appeared to be a hole in the cellar roof but was actually a hatchway, a rope was lowered, and three more men dropped nimbly to the ground. All of them, including Langland, were still naked.
“Leave him to me, Mitch.”
We climbed off Joseph’s back, and he struggled to his feet, only to be met with another swift kick, this time to his chest. He collapsed, winded, and sat on his ass fighting for breath. The soldiers quickly had him bound. His naked body was covered in mud and grime. Langland picked up the gun and emptied the chambers, scattering the bullets into the dark corners of the cellar. Lacking a sporran, or any handy pouch in which to store the gun, he handed it to me.