Free The Secret Tunnel by James Lear Page B

on this train, Mitch. Your little Bertrand, and my little Arthur…”
    I had hoped he would be “my” little Arthur, but it seemed
churlish to argue the point. Perhaps, at some point, we could trade. Now there was an idea.
    “Better make sure that all is well with my charges. See you later, Mitch, I have no doubt.”
    He smiled and followed Arthur to the private carriage.
    “Hsssssssst!”
    Was it the brakes, or the wind?
    “Hsssssssst!”
    No, it was Bertrand, peeking out from our compartment, sounding—insofar as a hiss can convey meaning—extremely unhappy. I joined him.
    “I see you, manipulating him.”
    “Oh. Watching, were you?”
    “I do not like that man, I tell you.”
    “Bet you didn’t mind watching me feeling his cock, though? Eh?”
    “Bah… You are too…too much…”
    “I bet it turned you on, Bertrand. Let me see.” I grabbed him; he too was hard in his pants, although nowhere near as large as Dickinson. “As I suspected. You’re as bad as I am, my friend.”
    “It is not fair, Mitch. I want you.”
    “And you will have me.”
    “But when?”
    It was a good question. Every time I tried to make out with Bertrand, we were interrupted. I was not used to forces conspiring against me in this way. Normally, I see an opportunity, and I take it. I do not like to defer gratification. It makes me irritable.
    “Okay. Now.”
    “ Enfin . And where?”
    “The bathroom.”
    “Oh, that bathroom… C’est toujours occupé . I prefer here.”
    “And I prefer not to be caught in the act and locked up
in Pentonville Prison, thank you very much.”
    “These English laws… Barbares …”
    “That may be, but unless you have time to lobby Parliament for a very rapid piece of legislation, I’m afraid you’re going to have to accompany me to the bathroom. If you want this, that is.” I grabbed his hand and brought it to my fly.
    “Yes,” said Bertrand, ever the pragmatist. “This I want very much.”
    “So come on.”
    This time, thank God, the bathroom was free, and we locked ourselves in. The wind was howling outside, and it was practically dark; snow and sleet rattled on the windows. But we did not care about the weather. The moment the door was locked, I pulled Bertrand toward me, leaned down, and kissed him on the mouth. His lips parted, and my tongue forged ahead.
    After so long a delay, I was ready to devour Bertrand. My lust was so extreme that I could barely contain myself: I wanted to fuck his mouth, fuck his ass, kiss him, lick him, and bite him all at the same time. I wanted two dicks, two mouths, and at least three pairs of hands for all that I had in mind. But when I opened my eyes and saw him staring up at me with what can only be described as devotion, I tempered my fury. The door was locked; we had a little time. If anyone else wanted to get in, that was their bad luck. They could piss second class, for once.
    We continued to kiss, tasting the coffee and the wine that we had recently drunk, tasting each other. I cupped the back of Bertrand’s head with my hand, rubbing his short brown hair, massaging the tendons in his neck. With my other hand, I squeezed his buttocks; they were firm and full, just how I like them. I remembered how hairy he was down there, how his ass lips sucked on Dickinson’s finger, and thought how good my dick would look in the same place.

    I broke the kiss.
    “I want to fuck you, Bertrand.”
    His mouth hung open, wet with spit. His face was so trusting, so open, it almost seemed a shame to be using him in this way. Were it not for the fact that he clearly wanted my dick inside him as much as I wanted to put it there, I might have hesitated. Might.
    “First, I will suck you.” I’m not sure whether this direct statement was just the European way, or if his English was inadequate to express anything more complicated, but in any case he dropped to his knees and started unbuttoning my fly. I helped him by unbuckling my belt and pulling out my