The Low Road

by James Lear

  I needed to know more. Perhaps he would talk if I played along. I sank to my knees and buried my face in his arse, licking and slurping and finally sticking my tongue into his hole. I heard him gasp in surprise; he hadn’t expected the naive schoolteacher to be such an adept. Well, it was no great hardship; eating his arse was like enjoying the finest of sweetmeats. When I broke away, I was gratified to see that his cock, limp at first, was now fully erect. He was only play-acting before; now, however, he was genuinely excited. This, I felt, shortened the odds between us.

  The temptation to plough straight into his arse was overwhelming, and my cock was begging for relief. He wanted it as much as I did, I could tell: he was arching his back and sticking his tail in the air like a cat on heat. I had to take advantage of the situation. If I gave him what he wanted, satisfied him and allowed him to recover his sang-froid, then the opportunity would be missed. I knew that I’d be able to think clearer if only I could empty my balls inside him, but that would have to wait. I had to keep him on the boil.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said - and now he was not sneering. ‘Can’t you see I’m ready for you?’

  ‘God, you’re a dirty wee bastard, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, I am.’ My aim had hit home; I guessed that he was the sort who liked to be treated a bit rough, while keeping the upper hand. I knew the game well; I had played it myself often enough on board the Florida. Let them think they’re in control, pander to their masculine pride, but all the time get them to do exactly what you want them to do...

  ‘I should tan that arse of yours before I fuck it.’

  He buried his face in the bedclothes and gave an ‘Mmm’ in reply, wiggling his bum provocatively in my face. He thought he was being so clever. But we were both playing a role.

  I smacked his right buttock gently, then his left. He squirmed. ‘Harder!’

  This time I gave each cheek a good whack; the sound was loud in the small chamber. He groaned in delight. ‘More.’

  Moving round beside him I gave his pert arse a good thrashing, and watched it grow pink and then red under my hands. The pain was goading him on; he was now pushing his cock back between his legs to show me how hard it was, to inflame me even further. Oh no, my boy, I thought, you won’t trick me that easily.

  Still belabouring his bum with one hand, I reached over the chair with the other and picked up the leather purse; the boy was so far gone that he didn’t even notice. The shoulder strap was made of good strong leather, about two inches wide: just right for a good whipping. I doubled it over and brought it down with a crack across his cheeks. He moaned, pushed his cock further back and wriggled his arse. I whacked him again, then let the leather strap dangle between his spread buttocks, playing over the hole.

  Suddenly he realised what I was doing. His head whipped round and he made a grab for the purse, which I held just out of his reach. As quick as lightning he was up on his knees facing me, grabbing for the purse. I held it above my head. He was red in the face from his recent beating, and his stiff cock bounced around with every movement.

  ‘Give me that!’

  ‘Come and get it!’

  He stood up on the bed and reached; I took a step back, and he nearly crashed to the floor. As he regained his balance I caught him round the waist, threw him down on his back and held on to his knees; he twisted and turned his torso, but there was little he could do. I was a good deal stronger than him. The purse I slung round my neck.

  ‘What’s so special about this old leather bag, then?’

  ‘Nothing... Just give it to me.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ll give it to you.’ I pressed my groin against his arse, which was spread open at just the right level. He shut his eyes and groaned, but he wouldn’t give in that easily.

  ‘Let me go, schoolteacher.’ The sneer was back in his voice, but his cock was still as stiff as a post, drooling at the tip. He was a lithe, slim-hipped young man, smooth-bodied - and his cock looked huge on that slight frame. I longed to see it shooting over his slender belly. But that would have to wait.

  ‘Tell me what’s in the package and I’ll let you go.’

  ‘Letters. That’s all. Now shut up and fuck me.’

  ‘Letters to whom?’

  ‘General Wilmott of course. Didn’t your friend downstairs tell you? I’m one of his spies. That’s why they won’t lay a finger on me. Dirty rabble. I know what they want to do. What you all want to do. So come on. I’m ready for it.’

  ‘What are they about? The letters?’

  ‘You’re suddenly full of questions, schoolteacher. I thought you were only interested in the ancients...’

  He was catching on too quickly. I had to distract his attention, and so with one hand I undid my trousers and let my cock spring out into the open. He should have used the opportunity to struggle free and raise the alarm, but the moment he caught sight of my weapon all the fight went out of him.

  ‘My God.’

  ‘You want this, don’t you?’

  ‘I... yes.’

  ‘You want it inside you.’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  ‘What’s in the letters?’ I could see the struggle going on inside him. I made my cock twitch, and pressed it against his bum.

  ‘Information.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Prisoners. They’re moving prisoners all over Scotland. It’s all in code, you won’t be able to read it. That’s all I know. Now will you just stick that fucking thing up my arse and get on with it.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ll get on with it.’

  I launched myself on top of him and stuck my tongue down his throat, letting my cock batter against his hole, which was practically sucking me in. Then, with a dexterity that still surprises me, I whipped the purse over my head, looped the strap around his wrists and tied them quickly together. There was little he could do; the bucking and writhing beneath me was half complaint, half encouragement. When his hands were firmly tied, I sat up and admired my handiwork. His arms stretched above his head; he was sweating. Our cocks were playing together down below.

  ‘What... what are you doing?’ For the first time, he sounded uncertain.

  ‘I’m double-crossing you, you dirty little spy.’

  He was about to cry out, but I shunted quickly up his torso and stopped his mouth with my cock. With a pitiful look in his eyes, he swallowed the whole thing. He was not content just to gag on it; within a minute he was sucking on it with enthusiasm. He was very good at it, too, and I could feel a good head of steam building up inside me. But if I came, he would lose interest in me.

  While he was guzzling on my prick, I opened the purse and had a cursory look at its content. A large outer envelope was clearly addressed to General Wilmott, Glasgow; it bore the royal seal, and a Latin inscription on the reverse which I immediately translated as ‘The Bearer is to be Trusted’. Oh yes, he was to be trusted all right; but he was not to be the bearer they were expecting. I would take his place. I slipped the package back into the purse and concentrated on fucking his face. Looking over my shoulder, I saw his cock pulsing on his stomach, where a pool of sticky juice had collected. This was turning out better than I had expected. I reached round and gave it a squeeze; I heard him moan in gratitude.

  I pulled out of his mouth when I felt I could bear it no longer, and waited for the boiling in my balls to subside. The messenger boy had lost all interest in shouting out for help; he could think about one thing only now. He licked his lips, unwilling to relinquish the taste of my prick, and I must admit that I would have been more than happy to give him a mouthful that he could savour at his leisure.

  First, however, I had to secure my plans. I hooked his bound wrists over the headboard, looped the purse through it and thus secured him at one end. Then I picked up his shirt from the floor, ripped it into two pieces and deftly bound his ankles to the knobs at the foot of the bed. He put up a token resistance, but a few slaps around the face with my hard, wet cock were enough to shut him up.r />
  There: I had him where I wanted him. If he cried out I could kill him, and he knew it. Instead he just lay there, looking to me for the next move.

  I was in two minds. Uppermost was the fact that here lay this beautiful young man, slim-hipped and well-hung with the juiciest arsehole it had ever been my pleasure to lick. He sucked like an angel; I could only imagine what it would feel like to bury my prick in his guts. On the other hand, a plan had formed in my mind. I wanted satisfaction on both counts.

  For a while, I stood at the side of the bed and looked at him. He was certainly appetising. Dark nipples stood out of his smooth brown chest like organ stops; I licked my fingers and teased them, pulling on them until he sighed with pleasure, then I rubbed the head of my dick over them, leaving a trail of slime over each one. He lifted his hips off the bed, begging me to pay some attention to his arse, and so I gave him a finger, then another, and fucked him that way for a while. God, his arse tugged and pulled at those fingers! I added another, and went as far as I could go; it was far enough for neither of us. How much more satisfaction I would get with my prick, longer than my longest finger by a good four inches.

  And then there was his hard, silky cock lying against the taut skin of his stomach, framed by a little tuft of hair. I lifted it and played for a while with the loose foreskin, pulling it back to expose one of the best-shaped heads I have ever seen. I couldn’t resist it: I bent down and ran my tongue over it, then placed my lips around it and kissed it. The boy was muttering a string of obscenities in a half-whisper. He hated me, of course, but he loved what I was doing to him.

  I stood up and stripped, watching with delight the look of hunger in his eyes as he took in every inch of my body. He was accustomed to the English generals; I would show him the body of a true Highlander, and he’d see what his treachery had cost him. He was transfixed - as, in truth, was I by the sight of him bound and writhing on the bed. I could hear the heavy footsteps of the soldiers as they pounded up the stairs and along the corridors to their own chambers. Between us, there was a pregnant silence. I wanted nothing more than to fuck him.

  I clambered over the foot of the bed, in between his legs, and lay at full length atop him. Our cocks pressed together; our mouths locked, and with one hand I caressed his head while with the other I brutally fingered his arse. Then inspiration struck. I leaned over and blew out the fat tallow candle that was burning on the night stand. We were in total darkness. Now, he must have thought, he was going to get what he wanted.

  I pulled the candle out of its holder, pinched off the wick between finger and thumb and spread some of the molten tallow over the other end, where it had been cut down slightly to fit into the candlestick. It was just the right size: as fat as my cock, and a little longer. I hoisted the boy’s legs in the air and shoved the candlestick up his arse. He groaned and writhed in ecstasy at first, then spat in disappointment.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  He was too late. I had used those few seconds to bundle up his clothes. I put on my own shirt (his I had used to tie him to the bed) and stuffed his mouth with a scarf. He would look a pretty sight when the soldiers found him.

  I slipped the package of letters out of the purse, dressed quickly and quietly and crept into the passage, just in time to see Blair, my lover of the evening, disappearing into his room.

  I went to his door.

  ‘Blair! Blair!’ I whispered, doing my best to impersonate the messenger boy’s sneering tones.

  ‘What is it?’ He was clearly drunk.

  ‘He’s waiting for you.’

  ‘Wha --?’

  ‘The schoolteacher. He’s waiting for you in my room. He wants a good fucking, although I suggest you light a candle first.’

  I heard Blair stumbling around, and made my escape down the stairs before I saw him leave his room.

  Well, if both were willing, the messenger boy would get fucked, and Blair would get a piece of arse. Only I would leave the inn unsatisfied. But I had something far more precious: the letters and a new identity.

  I left the inn as quietly as possible and stole a horse. By the time Blair discovered my deception, and the messenger had dared to confess that I had tricked him so easily, I would be well on the way to Glasgow.

  Chapter Eleven

  Carlisle, 2 March 1751

  Dear Charlie

  You must by now have assumed that I am dead or disappeared for good. Perhaps you spare the odd thought for me and wonder what became of your old tutor. Perhaps these letters never reach you at all.

  To my astonishment, and maybe yours, I am still alive, no longer in prison, living in relative comfort and safety although not, I am afraid, enjoying my liberty. My situation now may be more dangerous than before, but at least I have a bed to sleep in and a bowl to wash in.

  You will see from the address that I find myself in Carlisle, way down over the border in England. Charlie, I hope you never have cause to venture this far south; it is a dismal place, squalid and dark in comparison to the glorious open spaces of the western Highlands. My lot, however, could be worse: I am billetted in a handsome property just outside the town, and have almost forgotten what hunger feels like. The flesh is returning to my bones, and I am even able to exercise outdoors.

  You will be wondering how I find myself in such comparable comfort. When last I wrote I was chained to the wall like an animal in a stinking dungeon, my only comfort another prisoner who contrived to escape from the castle (at the cost, I fear, of a corrupt soldier’s life) and gained freedom. I pray that he has found his way home to his wife and child and that no accident has befallen him along the way. He was a good man, if violent.

  My status in Fort William was, as you know, extremely parlous. There were those who wanted me killed without delay; word had obviously reached them that I was not an innocent priest, but some kind of French agent at large in Scotland. But my clerical garb served me well and I was spared that time. My heart sank, however, when I was once again summoned to the Governor’s office. This time, I felt certain, the die was cast. I was interrogated again; I was silent in response. Certain accusations were made; I did not reply, although I was impressed at their accuracy. I was a spy sent from France to help high-ranking Jacobites, they told me. I said nothing. A rescue party had been sent from France, they said, and was thought to be on these shores. I hung my head; indeed, I still know nothing of the truth or otherwise of this allegation.

  They dared not kill me, that much was dear; I suppose the fear of reprisals was a major consideration. Instead, however, I was to be transferred from Fort William to an undisclosed destination. I was placed, bound and blindfolded, in a dosed carriage among sacks of meal and bundles of firewood that had been ‘requisitioned’ from the Highland farms, and taken under guard on the road out of Scotland. The arrogance of the redcoats never ceased to astonish me as they stopped and searched every traveller they met. It was only the patience and dignity of these persecuted Scots that avoided outright violence.

  Finally we passed through Lanark and over the Lowther Hills, across the border and into Carlisle - or so I gathered from the shouted conversation of my escorts. At least I was fed and watered regularly, and on the third day one of the soldiers suffered me to have my eyes uncovered.

  I was unloaded alongside the rest of the cargo outside the garrison at Carlisle where, had it not been for the thick cords that bound my hands (I was tethered to a railing like a horse) I might have slipped away. Instead I was transferred to an impressive coach and driven alongside a surly, taciturn redcoat to my current address - Leigh House, a well-proportioned red-brick edifice, perhaps fifty years old, obviously the work of a successful, status-hungry merchant with money to burn. The only thing that marked it out from a normal burgher’s house was the high wall around the park, the deadly-looking railings atop them, and the armed guard patrolling the perimeter.

  I was escorted into the main hall, where my host, Mr William Leigh, awaited me. I disliked him at once: hi
s long, grey hair, his shiny, smooth forehead, the plump, perfumed jowls and white hands that had never done a day’s work in their lives. I guessed that his father had made the family fortune, and that the incumbent enjoyed a life of idleness. He greeted me in a brocade dressing gown and a smoking cap with a tassel dangling foppishly from the top; his feet were shod in tiny, delicate chamois slippers.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, take his boots off!’ he squeaked when I was pushed forward on to the Turkish carpet. The guard obliged, and I stood barefoot in my prison rags, a sorry sight to see.

  Leigh looked me up and down, circling around me for all the world like a Roman patrician about to purchase a slave. I expected him to prise my mouth open and look at my teeth.

  ‘Well,’ he smirked, ‘you’re my little boy’s new tutor. I suppose you’ll have to do. I don’t know what they think they’re sending me these days.’ He rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘But I suppose we shall have to make the best of a bad job.’

  Leigh, I guess, is one of those infamous types who benefit from civil strife, who offers his services and influence to the governing powers in return for financial and business favours. Leigh House had been converted into a kind of private prison, where awkward cases like myself could ‘disappear’ for any length of time under a guise of respectability. So, I was to be a tutor once again. The contrast between my two pedagogical appointments struck me at once.

  I sensed that Leigh himself would have been quite happy to ‘lean’ from me, such was the appraising manner in which he ran his piggy little eyes over my frame. He insisted on attending while I was taken to the bathroom and sluiced down by his ‘valet’, a taciturn brute who I imagined was called upon for any number of intimate services. I tried to maintain my modesty while this creature rubbed me down, and while Leigh peeked around the door like a naughty schoolgirl, giggling and blushing when he saw my nakedness. There was little I could do, however.