The Low Road

by James Lear

  I had no choice but to trust her. ‘Yes, I’m in a great deal of trouble and I have to get away immediately.’

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Highlander?’ She must have recognised my accent.

  ‘Yes, Loch Linnhe. You?’

  ‘Arisaig. I’m an orphan,’ she added, by way of excusing her unpatriotic employment.

  ‘Will you help me?’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Get me out of here.’

  She pondered for a while. ‘The back of the building is heavily guarded. We can’t come and go as we like, you know.’

  ‘Then what am I to do?’

  ‘There might be a way...’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It’s difficult, and dangerous, but it will get you out. And it will serve me a turn as well.’

  The plan was simple enough. Later that night, around two hours past midnight, a coach was to arrive from Kilmarnock bearing one Captain Robert, en route for Stirling, Perth and Dundee, ‘a most fearsome soldier’ according to Anne, my new friend. His visit to Glasgow had a twofold purpose: to change his horses, and to change his woman. Anne had been designated as his ‘companion of the road’ for the next stage of the journey; the captain, it seemed, was a man of prodigious appetites and a short attention span. If I would take Anne’s place in the captain’s coach, I would be ensured a safe passage out of the garrison - and would enable Anne to stay near the soldier that she loved and was planning to marry. What happened to me beyond the garrison gates was, of course, my own affair; it would not be the first time I had jumped out of a moving vehicle, albeit my first attempt in women’s clothing.

  At first I demurred; the plan was simply too bizarre. But gradually it dawned that it was my only chance, and that Anne was putting herself at considerable risk by agreeing to help a countryman. Perhaps it was her way of atoning for her own betrayals; whatever the reason, I could not resist her for long.

  She led me upstairs, through a locked door (‘We need a safe haven here, believe me’) and into the dormitory, where a dozen narrow beds were laid out in rows down either side of a cheerless attic. And all around - in bed, at tables, gossiping together on chairs - were the women of the house, combing their hair, washing their faces, dressing for the night. At my entrance, there was a collective gasp and giggle, but Anne signalled silence and went about closing all the shutters and extinguishing any unnecessary candles.

  ‘Ooh, Annie,’ said one of the girls, a big-boned brunette who was a good six inches taller than me, ‘you really shouldn’t bring your work home with you!’

  ‘Let’s have a look at him,’ said her friend, a petite blonde who approached me with a candle. ‘Why, Annie, he’s as cute as a button! Where did you find him?’

  Soon they had all gathered round me and were examining me like a new pet, stroking my hair, pinching my cheeks and my backside.

  ‘That’s enough!’ whispered Anne. ‘There’s work to be done! Quick, Charlie, strip!’

  I have never been bashful about nakedness; why, only a couple of hours earlier I had performed for the lusty officers of the garrison. Now, however, in the company of women, I was shy and awkward, blushing like a little boy.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Charlie, hurry up!’ said Anne. ‘The garrison’s waking. Something’s afoot.’

  Indeed, I could hear voices below. I undressed hastily and stood amidst the circle of women, who discussed me as if I wasn’t there.

  ‘It’s bigger than your David’s.’

  ‘Aye, but it’s not so bonnie.’

  ‘Will you look at the skin on him? White as milk!’

  ‘But he’s got a hairy arse, and look, a hairy little tummy.’

  ‘We’ll have to shave him.’ This was Anne who, to my horror, was whetting a razor. ‘It’s all right, Charlie, we occasionally have to shave our legs and armpits for men with specifically smooth tastes. I know what I’m doing.’ Swiftly she lathered me up from the washstand, and in a few painless strokes had removed the offending tufts. She dabbed me dry and applied some scented powder to the freshly denuded areas. My backside felt, in truth, as soft as a woman’s.

  ‘There, now you’ll pass muster in the dark. I just pray to God that the captain doesn’t have bright lights in his coach.’

  I joined that prayer most fervently. Smooth I may be, but it would be a foolish man indeed who believed me to be a woman. Clothes improved the illusion: I was swiftly dressed in a long petticoat, a pair of silk stockings that fastened to a belt around my hips, and a blue dress of sprigged muslin that was thrown over my head and tightened at the back. Shoes, some false curls and a bonnet completed the illusion. Anne even added a touch of paint to my cheeks and lips.

  ‘Well, you’re a pretty lass and no mistake,’ she said, surveying her handiwork. ‘It’s just a shame we couldn’t find a pair of knickers to fit you. Just remember not to cross your legs.’ She dabbed my nose with powder and kissed me on the cheek. ‘What a shame we’re losing you. I’m sure you could have given the boys a little extra something, Miss Charlotte.’

  The rest of the girls giggled, and I blushed prettily. Our fun was interrupted by three loud bangs from the front door. Anne squeezed my hand and ran downstairs to open up. Soon she was back in the dormitory, followed by two soldiers armed with rifles. I recognised one of them as my escort from earlier in the evening, the one who had pinched my bottom before delivering me to the officers. Anne was remonstrating.

  ‘This is disgraceful! How dare you come bursting in here? As if you don’t give us enough trouble throughout the day without depriving us of our beauty sleep!’ The soldiers started poking around under the beds, searching through cupboards, opening chests. My disguise seemed to be complete. One of the other girls, the pert blonde, busied herself with my bonnet as if helping me to undress for the night. The soldiers approached us, looked us both in the face - and moved on. Anne slammed the door behind them.

  They had no sooner left than we heard the scrunch of wheels on the gravel at the back of the house; peering through the shutters, we saw a coach pulling up.

  ‘Captain Robert! Ready now, Charlie. Remember: speak as little as possible. Stay in the dark. As soon as you can: run! And God bless you, little brother!’

  The horses were changed, the coach awaiting, and I was escorted downstairs on the arms of my companions. A dark figure within the coach held the door open, and I climbed in. Another moment, and the horses were cantering down the road and we were away.

  Out of one dangerous situation, I now had to face another. My eyes grew accustomed to the gloom of the coach; the blinds were down, and besides, it was still pitch-dark outside once we had cleared the lights of the town. A little illumination came from the driver’s lantern, which shone through a gap at the top of the window; enough to see that there was only one other passenger. Captain Robert, no doubt. For the first five minutes of our journey, he was silent.

  We rattled out of Glasgow, and I assumed from the change in the road surface that we were now in open country. The coach slowed as we climbed a hill; I tried, discreetly, to find the door handle. There - easily within reach. I gripped it and pulled. No movement. I tried to lift it; nothing. It was locked. The other door, through which I had entered the coach, was barred by Captain Robert’s legs. There was nothing for it; I would have to wait until our next stop.

  From the reports that had preceded Captain Robert, I assumed that he would be attempting to force himself upon me the moment we were under way; I was relieved and astonished, then, to find myself unmolested. No word had yet been addressed to me, and we remained in silence for perhaps half an hour. I was about to nod off, exhausted from the day’s excesses, when the captain drew a bottle from inside his jacket, uncorked it and took a swig of what my nose told me immediately was brandy.

  ‘Would you care to join me, my dear young lady?’

  ‘Oh,’ I piped, in what I hoped was a passably feminine voice, ‘no thank
you.’

  Silence from the captain, who took another draught.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said, no thank you. It... er... disagrees with me.’

  ‘Say that again?’

  I feigned a cough to explain the hoarseness of my voice. ‘Pardon me, Captain. I have a cold.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He seemed to be laughing; I could not be sure. After another silence, he said ‘But my dear, there is nothing like a little drop of brandy to help a cold. Come along, it would really be the best thing in the world for you.’

  ‘No, really...’

  ‘I insist.’

  ‘Very well.’ I expected him to pass me the bottle; indeed, a tot of brandy would be a welcome tonic for my nerves under the circumstances. But he sat back in his chair and made no move towards me.

  ‘Won’t you come and get it, my dear?’

  Ah: I saw his game.

  ‘On second thoughts, I don’t think -’

  ‘But you must.’ He grasped my hand and pulled it towards him. I was not altogether surprised when, instead of closing round a cold brandy bottle, my fingers came into contact with a hot, hard cock.

  ‘Oh, good gracious!’

  ‘Come, my dear, it’s surely not the first time you’ve had a soldier’s prick in your hand, is it? Not in your line of work.’

  ‘Of course, but -’

  ‘If you’d prefer the brandy...’

  ‘No...’ Judging by the extraordinary dimensions of the piece I was holding, there was nothing I would rather have had in my hand. But I was mindful of the dangers of my predicament.

  ‘Come on then, my girl,’ said the captain, thrusting his hips forward, ‘take care of me. That’s what you’re here for.’

  Gingerly at first I rubbed the captain’s shaft, but he was not for half measures. ‘Don’t just play with it! I was told you were a professional.’

  Unwilling to arouse his suspicions, I grasped his cock more firmly and started wanking him in earnest. The captain sighed and stretched out his legs. By the dim rays of the driver’s light, I could just make out a dark face and a full moustache.

  Obviously a hand alone was not going to be enough for the captain, so I sank to my knees on the floor of the coach and applied my ruby-red lips to his helmet. The sooner I could make the captain come, the better: maybe then he would sleep, and I could spring from the coach. My chin brushed the silky skin of his shaft, and I felt certain I was lost; instead, he just grunted with pleasure and started toying with my curls. I prayed that they would not come off in his hand.

  The captain spread his legs and I knelt between them, quite ruining my skirts on the coach’s dirty floor. His prick stretched my mouth to its utmost but, as an ‘experienced whore’ I had to manage. I squeezed his gigantic balls and was delighted to find that they were tightening already. The job would soon be over.

  Of course, my companion had other ideas. Until now he had been happy to lie back and take it; now, however, it seemed he wanted something more from me. His hand had strayed from my head to my shoulders-I cursed the muscles I had developed there! - and down to my chest, which Anne had padded with cotton. He passed over my bust quickly enough (perhaps he was not one of those men who favoured breasts above all other bodily parts) and travelled down. Now I was really in trouble. He found an opening at the side of my gown and slipped a hand inside, ripping the muslin quite carelessly as he went. His fingers made contact with my stomach; thank God for Anne’s skill with the razor! He seemed delighted by the smoothness and firmness that he found there, and let me know by enthusiastic moaning that he approved. I guzzled more vigorously on his swelling cock.

  But of course, like many men, he wanted pussy. His hand was rummaging around inside my garments trying to find its goal; indeed, he made contact with my pubic hair, and stroked it appreciatively. Any minute now he was going to get the shock of his life. I was holding my cock out of the way by clamping it backwards between my thighs, a feat that caused me no little discomfort for, despite the perils of my predicament, I was now as stiff as a post. His fingers were straying lower; something had to be done.

  I raised my mouth off his cock and whispered. ‘Not there, Captain. It’s my time, you understand...’

  ‘Ah! Of course. The curse of Eve. Well, what a shame.’

  I had to keep him busy. ‘But of course, if you’d like to go round the back...’

  ‘What a splendid idea! And in many ways my preferred route.’

  The moment he had disengaged his hand from my front, I quickly opened my thighs, let my cock bounce up against my stomach then trapped the whole package in the forward position. It was not a moment too soon; the captain was already lifting my skirts and petticoats. Soon my bum was exposed to the air.

  ‘Ah, what a smooth, fragrant arse!’ he said, running his hand over my shaven cheeks. ‘Please, my dear, carry on sucking my cock.’ I did as I was told. One finger, then two, then three, slid into my hole at the rear. Thank God he was satisfied with that - for the time being.

  ‘I must fuck you now, my dear, in that tight little box. Bend over the seat.’ I gathered up my skirts and did as I was told; the captain lost no time in pressing the huge, swollen head of his cock against my ring. ‘Here I come!’ he exclaimed, and breached me. With the jogging of the coach and the thrusting of his hips, it was not long before my arse had opened sufficiently to allow all of him in.

  ‘My God, I’ve never experienced a fuck like it!’ he said, gripping on to my hips and ploughing into me. He spoke truer, perhaps, than he thought.

  I called on every trick in the book to make his ride the more enjoyable, hoping to hasten the moment of my escape. I clamped my sphincter around him; I pushed my arse back to meet him; I wriggled in a corkscrew motion that had had other men spewing their loads in a trice. Not the captain: he held on for grim life and rode me as if he were breaking a frisky young mare. ‘You’re a hot little trollop, Miss!’ he said as I let out a great grunt of excitement.

  We hit a particularly bad piece of road, and I was being thrown around the coach like a rag doll, conscious only of the effort of concealing my manhood and keeping the captain firmly occupied up my arse. Finally his thrusting took on a greater urgency, and he soon approached his crisis. In truth, I was so stimulated by the battering of my tender parts that I, too, reached orgasm at the same time, and drenched my petticoats with hot sperm.

  The captain withdrew with a satisfied plop, wiped his cock on my skirt, kissed me passionately on the mouth and settled down to sleep. I had manoeuvred myself round to the other door, and made ready to escape the moment we slowed down.

  Running water: we were about to cross a ford. I reached for the handle and prepared for a soaking and a bruising.

  The door was locked.

  Stunned by disappointment, I joined the captain in sleep.

  Dawn was well advanced by the time the coach juddered to a halt; a sickly grey light crept in round the blinds, and made the rays of the driver’s lamp look sulphurous and unearthly. I awoke with a sore arse and a familiar taste in my mouth, and the horror of my situation returned to me with full force. The captain was already wide awake, and when he saw that I had regained consciousness he drew the blind.

  ‘Good morning, my dear.’

  ‘Good... morning...’ I whispered, trying to shield my face from the light. I felt sure that, by now, my beard had grown enough to give me away. My companion seemed to be in excellent good spirits, and noticed nothing.

  Now, for the first time, I had a chance to get a good look at the man who had fucked me so hard in the night. He was of medium stature, perhaps only a little taller than me, around five foot seven or eight, and a good ten years my senior. He was clearly one of those men who loses their hair early, and it suited him; his hairline swept dramatically back above each temple, then forward again in the centre, and back. What hair remained was brown tinged with grey, and cut short. Any lack of hair on the head was more than made up for by a magnificent thick moustac
he, and what looked like the beginnings of a serious forestation at the neck of his shirt. He was dressed, of course, in military uniform, with a Scottish sporran hanging at the front of his trousers-a dangerous concession to the banned Highland garb, I thought. I was surprised to see that one of this arms was in a sling, the hand and wrist in plaster. That explained something that had puzzled me the night before; I had only ever felt one hand on me. I had been too preoccupied to think about it then; now I was glad that his injury had prevented my unmasking.

  That, however, could only be a matter of time. I felt my knees turning to jelly. I would have given anything to flee, but the captain offered no opportunity. He handed me down from the coach with his sound limb, and we proceeded arm in arm to the door of an inn. I fumbled to secure my bonnet, attempting to shade as much as possible of my face. My make-up was just a memory, all of the rouge smeared over the captain’s cock and transferred thence, I assumed, to my arse. Please God, I prayed, don’t let him look too closely at me! I scratched my chin and was horrified to feel the stubble growing there. I must shave - or die!

  Just before we entered the inn, the captain leaned towards me and whispered in my ear. ‘God, I cannot wait to get you upstairs, my girl,’ he said. ‘After last night, I want nothing more than to see you naked and skewered on the end of my prick.

  I thought I would throw up.

  We made it into the hall, where a bleary-eyed young porter gave us a key and indicated that our room was on the second floor at the rear. He unloaded the captain’s trunk from the back of the coach and hovered at the foot of the stairs, awaiting his reward.

  ‘Ah, my dear,’ said the captain, never taking his good arm from mine, ‘there’s a coin in my sporran if you would do me the favour.’

  ‘Of course.’ Perhaps I could escape while we were on the stairs. I did not want to alarm him by any show of disobedience now.