Free The Secret Tunnel by James Lear Page A

corners of his eyes creased up, and he flashed his teeth. “Is it that obvious? I’ve not lived there for a long time.”
    “It’s very pleasant,” I assured him. “And I suppose that explains your dark coloring as well.”
    “Yes. I’m what they call a Celt. Pale skin, dark hair. You could have Celtic blood as well, Dr. Mitchell.”
    “Me? I don’t know. My people were English, as far as I know. And I tan like a Negro in the summer, when I’m outdoors, swimming and riding and playing tennis.”
    “Although not so much in Scotland, I assume.”
    “Not as much as I would like.”
    We were getting on well, I thought, but he suddenly seemed to recall something, and resumed his frosty manner.
    “I must leave you in peace, Dr. Mitchell.”
    “Not on my account. It’s a pleasure to—”
    “Good morning.”
    He turned his back and stalked down the corridor. A
footstep behind me betrayed the approach of Peter Dickinson. Had Rhys been running away from him?
    “Ah, Mitch,” said Dickinson. “How is poor Bertrand? Have you been able to take care of him yet?”
    “No.”
    “I wouldn’t leave it too long. Such conditions can worsen rapidly. Although, as a doctor, you would understand that, I’m sure.”
    “Indeed.”
    He lowered his voice and spoke close to my ear; again, that intoxicating smell of citrus cologne and warm male flesh tickled my nostrils. “And I might add in this case: physician, heal thyself. We don’t want you to be…uncomfortable, do we?”
    “I might need a hand. It can be a tricky procedure—”
    “It’s not a hand that you need, Mitch.” He cupped his groin. “It’s this.”
    “Yeah…”
    “All yours…” He took my hand and drew it down. His crotch was warm—almost hot. I could feel a big pair of balls and a large, semihard dick. I squeezed gently.
    “How about now?” I nodded toward the vacant toilet. “I can get Bertrand as well if you want.”
    “Two for the price of one? I’m tempted, Mitch. As you can probably tell.” I’d brought him to full erection by now. “But, sadly, I am needed elsewhere.”
    “Daisy?”
    “Daisy, Hugo, the full traveling freak show.”
    “Sounds like fun.”
    He rolled his eyes; I didn’t stop feeling him up. “Oh, you have no idea.”
    “Did you deal with those reporters?”
    He closed his eyes. “Oh, shit, that feels good. I’m going to come in my pants if you carry on like that.”
    “Go right ahead.”

    “Be a terrible shame to waste it, wouldn’t it? I’d rather squirt it in your mouth, or up your little friend’s arse.”
    “That can be easily arranged.” My mouth was watering, and I was hungry for a taste of Dickinson. “Come on. It won’t take long.”
    “Patience, Mr. Mitchell. I want more than a furtive suck in a train toilet. You’re worth more than that.”
    The sound of whistling approached down the corridor. “Now,” said Dickinson, making his cock throb in my hand, “if it was this little piece, I might consider it.”
    Arthur, the porter, bounced into view, carrying a tray with a white cloth over it. I relinquished my grip on Dickinson’s crotch.
    “Gentlemen!” said Arthur. “If you will excuse me.”
    “Is that going to Miss Athenasy and Mr. Taylor’s carriage, lad?”
    “Yes, Mr. Dickinson, sir.”
    “Just one moment.”
    Dickinson lifted the cloth. A delicious smell wafted out—of steak, and fried potatoes and mushrooms. If my mouth had not already been watering at the thought of Dickinson’s hefty cock, that would have done the job.
    “Is it satisfactory, sir?”
    “Perfectly, Arthur. Come and see me later for a tip.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    Obviously I was not the only passenger from whom Arthur was expecting to make a profit. Dickinson replaced the cloth, and patted Arthur on the ass. “Good lad.”
    “Oh, sir.”
    “Off you go.”
    Arthur squeezed his way between us, and hurried down the corridor, leaving a savory waft in his wake.
    “There are some very tidy pieces of arse