Free The Low Road by James Lear Page A

opened the window, took a few breaths of fresh air, pushed back his hair in a characteristic gesture and then shut out the night. Now, I assumed, he would turn to his books or his correspondence. His desk was at
the wall opposite the window. He would be unlikely to see me; perhaps, however, I would see something to my advantage. What I expected I don’t know; I told myself that I would catch him in some treasonable act, but in truth I was intrigued by MacFarlane’s veiled remarks and wanted to know more.
    And so I scaled the vine. It was surprisingly easy; I was agile and light, and the branches, although thin, were strong and supple. I waited for a moment with my head just below the window ledge, listening for sounds of movement; if Lebecque was pacing the room, he would catch me for certain. But all was silence.
    I pulled myself up and peered into the room. There was only a single candle burning on the dresser, but it was enough; by now it was pitch dark outside, and I could make out every detail. The dresser, the desk, the open chest with Lebecque’s clothes and books spilling out over the floor, the chair, two pairs of boots - but no Lebecque. I raised myself a little higher and caught sight of a mattress and a foot. The bed was directly under the window; Lebecque must have decided on an early night. A few more inches, and I could see the ankle, the shin, the knee, the thigh, expecting at every moment to see the nightshirt that protected his clerical modesty. But no: travelling up the thigh, the other foot braced against it, the right leg crooked, further, further...
    A quick hitch up on the vine branch and I had the whole picture. Lebecque, directly beneath me, lay sprawled naked on his bed, illuminated only by the rays of a single candle. He was not asleep. His left hand was busy in his groin, pulling and coaxing his cock, while his right hand rubbed the matted black hair on his chest. I knew from our abortive swimming trips that Lebecque was a hairy man - that much had been revealed by his wet undershirt. Hair covered his torso like a thick rug.
    I barely breathed. The left hand was shielding its cargo from my prying eyes, and I wasn’t leaving until I saw it. He kept pushing it down, out of my sight. I could feast my eyes on the dense
black pubic hair, the first pale inch of the root of his cock, but the thing itself remained hidden. Then, as I was about to give up hope, he let go and it sprang up hard and massive, wavered for a moment in the air and fell with a slap against his stomach. Lebecque gripped it again and held it straight; it cast a great shadow up his chest as far as his neck. He tugged on the foreskin, pulling it out an inch from the head, then moved it back to reveal a shiny, slightly pointed head. Back and forth it went, back and forth... I heard Lebecque sigh, he shifted his buttocks slightly and went to work.
    God, I was as bad as MacFarlane. I hated Lebecque, wanted to undermine him, and yet I couldn’t tear myself away. I justified my spying by the fact that any sudden movement on my part might have been dangerous, might have alerted Lebecque to the fact that his shameful practice was observed. And so I stayed rooted to the spot, my own cock dribbling shamelessly inside my trousers. I could do nothing to relieve myself; both hands were fully occupied gripping on to the windowsill.
    It didn’t take long. Lebecque masturbated with a businesslike air. When he came, he didn’t yell or groan. He simply sighed, threw his head back with his eyes tight shut (thank God - otherwise he would have looked straight into my face) and emptied what looked like half a pint of spunk over himself. He was still for a while then stood up and padded towards the dresser for a cloth. I removed myself from his field of vision just before he turned to the window.
    Swiftly and silently I descended the vine, ran round to the front of the house and gained my room within two minutes. A quick tug at the