The Secret Tunnel (7 page)

“Very nice indeed,” said Dickinson. “What do you think, Mitch?”

“A fine piece of ass.”

“You said it. Now, Bertrand, how about sitting down on that seat and getting your legs in the air for me?”

Bertrand did as he was told—it was a bit of a struggle, as he was still encumbered by pants and underpants, which were bunched up over his shoes and socks. He put his hands behind his knees and pulled his legs up. His thighs were delightfully hairy.

“Now, Mitch, mind that door.”

I leaned against the door, one hand rubbing my crotch. Bertrand was ready: his cock was hard, lying on a thick bed of soft dark fuzz.

“I could fuck him right here and now,” said Dickinson, running his hand up and down the lengthening stiffness in his pants.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, gentlemen, we are slowing down.”

I had noticed nothing of the sort. All I could think of was Dickinson’s cock, Bertrand’s ass, and my cock and ass in any of several delightful combinations.

“
Merde!
” said Bertrand, struggling to get up. “We are stopping.
Qu’est ce qui se passe?
”

“We have a few minutes.” Dickinson spat into his hand,
slicked up his fingers and pushed them against Bertrand’s asshole.

“We are not… Mmmf!… Scheduled to stop… Aaah!” Dickinson’s finger was inside him, fucking him, wetting the black hair around the tight pink hole.

“There has been a slight change of schedule, I believe,” said Dickinson, cupping my groin, squeezing my dick. “A minor engineering problem. I am assured we will not be long.”

The train was slowing more.

Bertrand was uneasy. “But, monsieur, if someone were to come in…
Oh! Ça!
” Dickinson fingered him more vigorously. I noticed a drip of precum at the tip of Bertrand’s cock.

“You can see how much he likes it.”

“And now?” Dickinson moved his finger in further, and Bertrand closed his eyes. “I like a tight little arse,” said Dickinson. “He’s hot inside, Mitch. He’s going to be a good fuck.”

“I know it.”

He continued fingering Bertrand, now introducing his index finger as well.

“Shall we make him come?” said Dickinson, with a leer.

“Do it.”

I heard the squeal of the brakes and the hiss of the steam, voices and whistles from outside. Doors slammed, and there were footsteps in the corridor.

“Alas, gentlemen.” Dickinson retrieved his fingers, leaving Bertrand’s ass gaping at fresh air, “that will have to wait.” He opened the door and stuck his head out. Bertrand struggled to pull his pants up. “Duty calls. I’m sure you will find some way to pass the time.” He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him. Bertrand buttoned himself up; the poor boy looked physically ill.

“I was on the edge,” he said. “One more push and I think I would have… Sploof!”

“Well, don’t you dare sploof inside your pants. When you do it, I want to see it. And taste it.”

“Oh, you…” he tutted, but from his shy little smile I could tell that he was relishing the prospect of coming for me.

The train had stopped completely. We lifted the blinds and saw the hustle and bustle of York station.

THIS WAS NOT ACCORDING TO SCHEDULE. THE FLYING Scotsman’s nonstop service from Edinburgh to London had only recently been introduced, amid much ballyhoo, and was regarded as one of the wonders of the transportation world. Stopping at York—which the train had always done before—was a disappointment for all the passengers, not least for Bertrand, who was ready to take at least one hot, hard length up his tight hairy asshole.

The dowager passed by our window, looking like a disgusted camel.

“Really,” we heard her say, “one sincerely hopes that they will offer a refund of some sort. See to it, Chivers.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The little companion, walking a pace behind her mistress, shot her a look of such sharp loathing I almost expected to see the glitter of a blade burying itself in the dowager’s fox-fur wrap.

They were not the only ones to step down from the train, despite the best efforts of the conductor and the station staff to keep them contained. A little man in a uniform was
running up and down the platform with a bullhorn. “Ladies and gentlemen, please stay on board the train—We will be departing shortly—Please, ladies and—Please—We shall—”

He was jostled by a press of people spilling from the carriages, all eager to stretch their legs and get a good look at each other. Our conductor, the one from whom I had rescued poor Bertrand, passed by the window with a grim expression on his face. He glanced in, saw us pressed against the glass, and turned away in disgust.

“
Cochon de merde
,” muttered Bertrand.

“Come on, let’s get some fresh air.” I was, in truth, more interested in mixing with a group of kilted soldiers who had piled out of the third-class carriage at the end of the train.

“Fresh air! This obsession with fresh air!” Bertrand said, putting on his shabby overcoat.

“You couldn’t wait to get your clothes off just now.”

“Ah, but there was something to warm me,” he said. “Now I am cold.”

We stepped down onto the platform; there was still frost in the shadows, and our shoes crunched on the gravelly surface. I strolled toward the soldiers, four sturdy lads stamping their boots and blowing into their cupped hands. I knew very well that Scottish soldiers were a friendly bunch—some of our overnight guests had proved just how friendly they could be—so I was looking forward to a little flirtatious banter with these tall, thickset creatures with their long wool socks and bare, hairy knees.

Bertrand trotted after me, and as we passed them one of the soldiers made a protracted kissing sound, followed by low male laughter.

I stopped and turned. “Good morning, gentlemen.” Bertrand walked on.

“Morning, sir.” The ringleader was a handsome-looking brute, with a strong jawline and a broken nose. His cap was pushed far down his forehead; the back of his
head was practically shaved. According to the stripes on his jacket, he was a sergeant.

“Nice to stretch the legs,” I said. “Cigarette, anyone?” I offered my case. It was duly admired.

“That looks like silver.”

“It is silver.”

“You’re American.”

“And you’re Scottish.”

“What about your wee friend?”

“He’s Belgian.”

“I fought in Belgium,” said the ringleader, “and I still bear the scars of that war.” He lifted up his kilt and showed a deeply indented scar on his left thigh. I bent to inspect it.

“You’re lucky to have kept the leg.”

“Aye. Plenty didn’t.”

“Ever get any pain?”

“You a doctor?” he asked.

“Or just enjoying the view?” put in another, digging his pals in the ribs.

“Both, in fact.”

“I get a twinge now and again,” he said, dropping the skirt. I stood up, reluctantly. There had been a noticeable blast of heat from under his kilt, and I felt like warming my hands.

“Otherwise, you’re in good health?”

“Aye, sir.” He lit his cigarette from my lighter. “Rude health.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Perhaps you’d like to examine me, doctor?” This came from one of the younger soldiers, a snub-nosed redhead.

“Why, soldier, what’s wrong with you?”

“Well,” he said, in a foolish, childish voice, “I keep getting these awful swellings down there.”

The sergeant clipped him around the ear. “Don’t be so fuckin’ cheeky, boy. Sorry, sir.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mind high spirits.”

“Is that so? The lads do have very high spirits, don’t you, lads?”

There was a general, throaty murmuring of “aye.”

“And what are the four of you doing in London?” I asked him. “Duty, or pleasure?”

“Bit of both, sir. We’re on guard duty at the Palace.”

“Indeed. Then perhaps I shall come and look you up.”

The sergeant leaned toward me; I smelled whiskey on his breath. “Or come to the carriage later, and look us up there.”

He took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked the stub away with finger and thumb. It landed on the platform in a shower of sparks, hissing on a patch of frost.

Bertrand was beckoning furiously from the end of the platform.

“Goodbye, boys. Hope to see more of you later.”

They laughed, waved, moved on. Perhaps, in a group like this, they would be unwilling to do more than talk dirty. But if I could single one of them out—the quiet, dark-haired one, perhaps, or the brute of a sergeant…

Bertrand was hopping from one foot to the other. “
Vas-y! Pour l’amour de dieu
, Mitch…”

“What is it? I was just talking to those—”

“Listen.”

“What?”

“
Écoute!
In there!” He jerked his thumb toward the shed at the end of the platform.

“What is it?”

“Go! Hear!”

He grabbed my arm and walked me toward the shed. There was something, he was right—a rhythmic thumping, and what sounded like groaning. Was there an animal tethered in there—a station dog, perhaps—trying to get out? Or was it…

“It is the engineer, I think.”

“The engineer?”

“And the… What is it you call him?
Le chauffeur
. He who makes the fire.”

“The stoker.”

“
Oui, c’est ça
, the stokkeur. They have gone in together.”

“And now they’re making these strange noises.”

“
Bien sûr
. I think, perhaps…”

“You’re not suggesting that they stopped the train at York just so they could nip into the shed for a fuck, are you?”

“Why not?”

“Are they good-looking?”

“The engineer is not bad. He is blond, with blue eyes. The stokkeur, he looks like a gypsy.”

I was intrigued—but unfortunately neither of us was tall enough to see through the tiny, filthy window at the top of the shed door. I looked around for something to stand on—a bucket, perhaps—to no avail.

“Lift me up, Bertrand.”

“Are you mad?”

“Then let me lift you.”

“I do not wish to—Ah, hold on—No, stop!”

I grabbed his thighs and hoisted him in the air, burying my face in his crotch. He wobbled dangerously, then braced himself against the shed wall.

“
Oh, là
,” he said. “
Mais
…
Oh!
”

“What can you see?” I asked—rather indistinctly, as I had a mouthful of warm cloth.

“Well, really…
Oh, mon dieu
…”

I could make a good guess at what Bertrand was watching, as he started stiffening in his pants. I pressed my face into him. It’s amazing what you can get away with on a crowded railway station platform in broad daylight.

“Let me down.
Assez
.”

He sprang to the ground and landed nimbly.

“Well? What did you see?”

Bertrand shrugged. “He was sucking him.”

“Who? Who was sucking whom?” In recounting such things, mere pronouns are inadequate.

“
Le blond
. The engineer. He was on his knees, sucking the chauffeur.”

“My God. Quick. Pick me up. I want to see—”

“Mitch—”

“I wanna see his cock—”

“Mitch, for God’s sake—” Bertrand was clearing his throat.

“What’s the matter? You’ve seen it. it’s only fair that I—Oh. Right.” It was the conductor, bearing down on us with a face like thunder.

“What are you doing, gentlemen?”

“Just getting a little light exercise, if it’s any of your business, which I doubt,” I replied. “We are traveling to London for a gymnastics competition.”

He knew very well the kind of gymnastics we were practicing for, but he was in no position to comment.

“Please, could you get back on the train, sir? We are about to depart.”

“It doesn’t look like it.” Nearly all the passengers were out on the platform—even Daisy Athenasy and Hugo Taylor, surrounded by people. The soldiers were sniffing around Miss Athenasy like dogs; Hugo Taylor was chatting with “my” sergeant.

“Come on, Bertrand. Let’s go and talk to our friends.”

“This is private railway property, sir.”

“Private? Yes, we saw just how private it was. Come, Bertrand.”

We left the conductor steaming, his back to the shed door.

Frankie was flitting around the stars, trying to keep the
soldiers’ hands off Daisy’s dress, trying at the same time to get a good look at their legs.

“Oh, chaps, thank God you’re here! Give me a hand getting Daisy back on the train!”

“Is she…” I made a face, crossing my eyes and sticking out my tongue to suggest intoxication.

“Just a touch,” said Frankie. “Come on, Daisy dear. Back on the nice warm train. You’ll catch your death out here. Hugo, could you give me a—Oh, this is hopeless.” Hugo Taylor had detached himself from the throng with the sergeant, and they were strolling up the platform, deep in conversation. How nice life must be for the rich and famous…

“Where the hell is Joseph?” growled Daisy Athenasy, tottering on her heels. “Joseph! I want Joseph!”

“Joseph is on the train, I’m sure.” Frankie assured her. “And so is nice Mr. Dickinson. So shall we—Ups-a-daisy, Daisy! Honestly,” he added, turning to me as Miss Athenasy staggered onto the carriage step, “I could murder that bloody Peter Dickinson. Never there when you want him, always there when you don’t.”

“Let me help.” I took Daisy by the elbow and pushed her onto the train. She slipped, screamed, but managed to right herself. I wondered just how much of whatever-it-was she had taken.

“Will she be all right?”

“Oh, yes,” said Frankie. “She’s always like this. She only stayed sober for the photographs because I hid her stuff. She raised merry hell.”