The Secret Tunnel (17 page)

“Speaking of which, I bet you could do with a bath, couldn’t you? We’ve got running hot water, you know.”

“Even in Edinburgh, we don’t have to boil kettles.”

“I could start running it for you, if you like.”

“That would be—mmmmmffff!” The moment we were inside the guest room, he dropped the cases and started kissing me again. This time my hands were free, and I was
able to feel the familiar rower’s muscles, the narrow waist, the high, firm buttocks, and that ever-present bulge in his pants. God, he was even more eager than I was—but then, I reflected, he probably hadn’t shot three loads already today. Given his wife’s nursery duties, I wondered if he had sex more than once or twice a week. Well, I’d soon make up any shortfall in that department.

“Take your clothes off.”

“Boy—”

“Please. I want to see you again.” He was tugging at my shirt, pulling it out of my waistband.

“Come on, then. Help yourself.” I stood still and allowed him to undress me. It reminded me of nights at Cambridge, when we’d helped each other to dress for the May Ball, or formal dinners—but in reverse. This time, instead of putting in collar studs, tying ties, and buttoning buttons, he was removing everything as fast as possible—and not with the greatest finesse. Buttons and studs were pinging across the floor, and when he encountered some difficulty with my fly, he simply tugged until the offending button tore off.

“Easy, Boy! I don’t have that many pairs of pants!”

He was kneeling in front of me now, and looked up with those adoring puppy-dog eyes that I’d long ago fallen in love with.

“It’s been ages, Mitch.”

“Yeah. So a few seconds won’t make much difference.”

“I can’t wait.”

“You always were impatient,” I said. “Here.” I hoisted the leg of my underpants aside and pulled my cock out, thinking that I’d better give him what he wanted before he shredded my entire wardrobe. He looked very grateful.

“It’s bigger than ever.”

“Your mind’s playing tricks, Boy.”

“Can I suck it?”

I wanted him to, of course, but it occurred to me that it
needed a good wash before it went anywhere.

“Hold your horses. Where’s this bath I was promised?”

“Coming right up.”

He disappeared into the en suite bathroom, giving me leisure to remove the clothes that he’d left in such a state of disarray. It was difficult to untie my shoelaces, hobbled as I was by my pants, but I managed somehow. When Morgan came back into the room, I was stark naked.

“You’ve got hairier,” he said.

“Must be that cold Scottish weather.”

“Come here, Mitch.” He held his arms open. “Let me hold you.”

There’s always been something about the juxtaposition of a fully clothed man with a naked man that has stimulated my interest. I let him hold me, feel me, kiss me from the neck downward. When his mouth traveled south of my navel, I pulled him back to his feet.

“Your turn,” I said. “Show me what two years of married life has done to you.”

“I’m still in good shape,” he said, whacking himself in the gut. “I keep myself fit.”

“I don’t know… You look a little bit thick around the middle.” He looked nothing of the sort, but I loved teasing him. He didn’t bother to unbutton his shirt, but pulled it right over his head. He was as lean and muscular as ever.

“There. What do you think?”

“Not too bad, Morgan, for a sedentary city boy. But I bet you’ve got a big fat ass from sitting in that bank all day.”

“Bollocks.” He undid his belt and was soon stepping out of his pants and underpants. All that was left was his black wool socks.

“Turn around.” He obeyed. “Hmmm. Not bad.” I smacked him hard on the ass, as we used to in the changing rooms after rowing practice, and grabbed his dick, long and lean and as stiff as a broom handle. “Not bad at all.”

“Come on. Your bath’s ready.”

“Is there room for two?”

“All in good time. First of all, I’m going to wash away the cares of the day.”

I stepped into the steaming water and sat down—it felt good. Morgan knelt on the bathmat, rubbing soap onto a sponge.

“Right. Let’s get you nice and clean.” He started washing the back of my neck, my shoulders. I lifted my arms and he worked the soapy sponge around my armpits, pushing the dense black hair into whorls.

“Now lie back.”

My cock broke the surface like a periscope as Morgan washed my chest, my stomach, skirting down my hips and on to my thighs. He pulled my feet up one at a time and washed them by hand, working the soap between the toes, massaging and caressing me until I was almost falling asleep. Even my dick was relaxing, and had fallen from the upright to the horizontal, lying across one thigh. It wouldn’t be allowed to rest for long.

“It’s been so long, Mitch…”

“Mmmm…”

“I wasn’t sure if you would still…you know…want to.”

“Mmmm…”

“What with me being married, and you being with Vince.”

“Morgan?”

“Yes, Mitch?”

“Can we talk about this later? Right now I just want to make up for lost time.”

“Right. Yes, of course.” He was blushing; Morgan always blushed easily, either from embarrassment or arousal, and this time it was a combination of the two. He stood up; his dick was still as stiff as before, and there was a tasty-looking droplet oozing out of his pisshole.

“Looks like you’re ready to explode.”

“Yeah…” He slapped his cock a few times with the palm of his hand—it bounced crazily in the air. “I just need somewhere to stick it.”

This was the Morgan I knew—direct and to the point. And, all things considered, it was probably better if he played the man this time around. I’d done so much fucking in the last few hours that I was by no means confident of being up to the job. I raised my knees.

“You haven’t washed my ass yet.”

He took the hint, soaped up his hands, and started rubbing vigorously around my wet hole. The water sloshed around the tub, lapping over my cock and balls. His middle finger found its way inside me, giving me a taste of what was to come. I hauled myself into a seated position and tried to get my mouth onto his cock, but it was too awkward; I slipped forward, taking a great deal more of his finger inside me and, I fear, almost spraining his wrist in the process.

“I’d better get out. You can fuck me on the floor.”

Without bothering to towel myself dry, I knelt on the bathmat and offered my dripping ass.

“Oh, Mitch…”

It didn’t take long. He lubricated his cock from a tub of Brylcreem in the bathroom cabinet, knelt between my feet, and pushed. I took him all the way, pressing my face into my forearms. It hurt, but it felt so good.

We knew each other well enough to fall quickly into a rhythm—and Morgan was so horny that he needed to come, and soon. I surrendered to the feeling in my ass—I didn’t have a lot of choice—and to my surprise I felt my own orgasm building up inside me. It’s just as well the bathroom was below the nursery; if we had been above, Belinda surely would have heard a strange rhythmic banging as her husband fucked me. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me into him. The momentum increased, and Morgan started to huff
and grunt, a sure sign that he was about to come. When he did, he collapsed on top of me, and I felt his hard stomach, his erect nipples, make contact with my back. Those last few merciless thrusts sent me over the edge, and I squirted onto the bathmat.

Morgan, thankfully, is always in a good mood after sex; other men might have been overcome by remorse at what he had just done. He pulled out of me and jumped in the bath, splashing water over his athletic limbs, washing his cock, squeezing out the last few drops of spunk. When he was done, I jumped in and did likewise. We toweled down, drying each other’s backs, and crept out of the bathroom with our clothes bundled under our arms.

We parted on the landing.

“This is your room, Mitch. You’ll find everything you need for the night. Sort your cases out in the morning. Sleep tight.” He looked left and right, up and down, and kissed me on the lips, ruffling my hair. “It’s good to have you back, old chap.”

We went to our separate beds and I, for one, slept like a log.

MORGAN PUT A CUP OF TEA ON MY BEDSIDE TABLE AND drew back the curtains.

“Come on, lazybones! Belinda’s dying to see you, cook is getting impatient about breakfast, and I’m bloody starving.” He pulled back the covers; I was naked under them, and hard, as usual upon waking. “Oof! Bit too early in the morning for that.” He turned away. “Oh, by the way. Telegram for you. Just arrived. Hurry up and get dressed. I’ll see you downstairs.”

I tore the telegram open; it was from Vince, of course.

 

ENJOY LONDON STOP BEST TO MORGAN AND BELINDA STOP LOVE YOU STOP VINCE

 

My heart somersaulted in my chest, and I felt a rush of confused emotion—love, shame, pride in Vince for having sent such a message, guilt at my own almost nonstop betrayal, interrupted only by sleep. I put the telegram in my wallet, splashed water on my face, and dressed quickly.
Clean clothes had been laid out for me—presumably while I snored. Perhaps by Belinda.

She stood when I came into the dining room, and held the baby out to me. It crowed, and extended its arms, and I was obliged to take it. Morgan beamed.

“Mitch, darling,” said Belinda, kissing me on both cheeks. “How good to see you again. I hope the journey wasn’t too awful. We heard that you’d been stuck in the tunnel.” She shuddered. “What a nightmare.”

Was that all they had heard? Perhaps the news of Rhys’s death, and the arrest at Peterborough station, had been suppressed—for now, at least.

“Oh, it wasn’t too bad. I found ways to pass the time.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Morgan, who knew me too well. “Come on, old chap. Breakfast. We’ve been waiting hours for you and the toast has gone all soft. Cook!” He shouted.

“Harry, darling, please use the bell.”

“Oh, sorry, old girl. Can’t get used to it.” He tugged on the tapestry bell pull.

The baby was blowing bubbles, grabbing handfuls of my face with its clammy hands.

“So, Mitch,” said Belinda, “what do you think of your goddaughter?”

Of course! That’s why I was here. “Oh, she’s absolutely splendid. What a little beauty.” I held her up in the air, bounced her a few times, and was showered with spit for my troubles.

“Here, hand her back,” said Belinda. “I can see you’re not used to little children.”

I wiped my eye with a napkin. The baby started squalling.

“What have I done?”

“Good lord, Mitch, you don’t have to do anything to set a little one off,” said Morgan. “Don’t look for rhyme and reason where children are concerned. I’ll take her, darling.”
He scooped the baby up and soon had her gurgling and laughing again. He looked perfectly at ease with the child, who clearly adored him.

Belinda smiled fondly. “I think Harry’s met his intellectual match at last, don’t you, Mitch?”

“Certainly looks that way.”

The cook, who looked exactly like the many aunts I’d left behind in Boston, appeared in the door, arms folded.

“Ah, cook,” said Belinda. “Mr. Mitchell is up, and we are ready for breakfast.”

“So I see.”

“Complete works, Mitch? Egg, bacon, sausage, fried bread, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, eh?”

“Oh, I, well…” I was hungry enough to eat whatever cook could give me, but the look on her face was making me nervous.

“Don’t worry about cook. Her bark’s worse than her bite. Eh, Mrs. Sleightholme?”

“I don’t know why I put up with your sense of humor, sir, I really don’t,” said the formidable Mrs. Sleightholme, but I could see that she was melted by Morgan’s cheerful manner—as was everyone. “I suppose I’ll manage to rustle up something, even at this late hour.” It was barely half past eight, but she was making me feel as if I’d slept till noon.

“Good show. Two full fry-ups then. Belinda will nibble on a piece of dry toast, as usual.”

“Some of us are trying to regain our figure after you-know-what,” said Belinda. “It’s all right for you.” She prodded Morgan in the stomach. “You get plenty of exercise. All I do is change nappies.”

Morgan grabbed her hand, brought it to his face, and kissed it. The baby, sandwiched between its parents, chuckled in delight. Husband and wife were obviously very much in love. Any evil thoughts I may have harbored—how Morgan would break down and confess that it had all been a
horrible mistake, that he wanted me after all—were crushed. I remembered the telegram from Vince and felt like even more of a heel.

Breakfast came and went, the baby was charming, and Belinda was every bit as nice as I remembered. The perfect match for my best friend. A wonderful mother and a beautiful woman. C’est la vie.

Dishes cleared and baby taken out for its walk, I told Morgan all about the adventure of the Flying Scotsman, of Rhys’s death, and the suspicious cast of characters that had dispersed at Kings Cross Station. I left out a few irrelevant details—but there was enough fucking and sucking in the narrative to keep him interested.

“I knew there would be some kind of excitement when you arrived! And here we have it—a ready-made murder mystery. Gosh, won’t that be fun!”

“Boy, you talk about it as if it’s a game. A man died.”

“I know, old chap. But come on, admit it. It’s thrilling.”

“Yes,” I said, trying not to sound too gung-ho—but Boy’s enthusiasm was hard to resist. “And what would you suggest we do about it?”

“Pay a few calls. Ask a few questions. Track people down. Come on, Mitch, this stinks to high heavens. You know you’re not going to go back to Edinburgh without getting to the bottom of it.” He paused for a moment, thoughtful, then added “and you’re not going back to Edinburgh without getting to the bottom of me, either. My poor arse hasn’t been fucked for so long I’ve practically forgotten what it feels like.”