The Low Road (15 page)

Captain Moore stood with his back to the cabin door, looking down at me. He was smart enough, sporting the uniform of a British naval officer, although I suspected that he no longer had the right to wear it. He was older than the rest of the crew, about forty, with a lined but still handsome face. His light brown hair was receding slightly, and cropped short to his skull. He had the full figure of a man accustomed to dining and drinking well, but
the physical exertions of life on ship kept it in proportion. He opened a box on the table, took out a cigar and lit it. I noticed that his hands, in comparison with the rest of the crew's, were clean and well kept.

He stood for a while in silence, smoking his cigar and surveying me through half-closed eyes. I had no doubt that he had rescued me from the crew only in order to enjoy me for himself; my experiences to date had taught me that any able-bodied man would take sexual pleasure at every opportunity. If I could only rest for a while, I would be able to oblige. I was grateful for each passing minute of peace.

‘I apologise for the rough handling you've received,' he said at length, speaking through a cloud of smoke. ‘The men get their spirits up, and there's only one way of controlling them.' From the deck I could just make out noises of shouting and banging; the orgy was continuing without me.

‘I trust you have not sustained any serious injury.'

‘No. Thank you.'

‘You certainly proved popular with the crew.'

‘Yes, sir.' I looked down at my chest and stomach, which was still covered with sperm and dirt from the deck.

‘You needn't worry about the rest of the voyage. You'll stay here until we get to Liverpool.'

He seemed kind, even polite. This gave me courage. ‘Sir,' I said, ‘what awaits me in Liverpool?'

‘Interrogation by General Wade, young man. Your reputation precedes you.'

‘My reputation?'

‘A Jacobite rebel. The son of a notorious rebel. The leader of a plot to rescue a French spy from Fort William. Oh yes, your plans are known, I'm afraid. You were indiscreet, Mister Gordon.'

‘I was foolish and boastful.'

‘Did you tell the truth?'

‘Of course not.'

The captain smoked in silence for a little longer. The cabin was warm and quiet, and I was comfortable at last. A large copper was heating by the fire, and the fragrant smoke of his cigar made me drowsy. The captain never took his eyes off me. I was unconcerned. Let him look. I'd had time to rest now. My body was coming to life again. My cock felt warm and heavy.

‘You are filthy.' He said this not as an accusation, merely an observation.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘I am about to take my bath. Come and assist me.'

He held out a hand and pulled me to my feet. He was fully uniformed; I, of course, was naked. I expected to feel his hands on my body, but instead he indicated a hip bath hanging from a nail above his bed.

‘Fill it from the copper.'

The captain retired behind a screen while I set the bath on the ground by the fire and filled it from the copper. Soon there was a foot's depth of hot, steaming water in the tub.

The captain emerged from behind the screen with a towel wrapped round his waist. His torso was a little on the heavy side, but the girth of his arms and shoulders suggested that he was still strong and virile enough. Dropping the towel to the floor, he stepped into the bath. I caught a glimpse of a fat cock and balls before they disappeared beneath the surface of the water. He handed me a cloth.

‘Wash me.'

I poured a dipper of water over his head and rubbed his neck and shoulders with the cloth. He grunted in satisfaction and leaned forward, offering the expanse of his back to my ministrations. Wetting my cloth again, I washed and scrubbed my way down to the base of his spine. He sat up and held out each arm in turn. I washed each limb as far as the armpits, then, standing
behind him, rubbed the cloth over his chest and stomach. He leaned back to give me easier access; I was not surprised to see that his cock was now breaking the surface of the water, not yet fully erect but agreeably distended.

I rubbed further down his abdomen, then, moving round the side of the tub, attended to his legs and feet.

‘Now my face, Mister Gordon.'

He closed his eyes and waited. I could easily have picked up a knife and murdered him in his bath - but to what end? His death would only have delivered me again to the tender mercies of the crew. The captain knew he had nothing to fear.

Squeezing the cloth out, I rubbed it gently over his forehead, his eyes, nose and mouth, around his ears and over his cropped head. Finally I scooped up another dipper of warm water and emptied it over him to rinse the dirt away. He spluttered, wiped his eyes and sat up.

‘Thank you. Now, let's have you.'

He stepped out of the bath, wrapped the towel around his waist (not before I'd had a good look at his cock hanging half stiff between his thighs) and stood beside me. He opened a little brass bottle that stood on the washstand, emptied a teaspoonful of perfumed liquid into the palm of his hand and started to rub it all over my chest, neck, shoulders and back in smooth movements. The stuff foamed up and shifted the dirt with it. Taking the cloth, he washed down my legs, between my buttocks, round my groin, under my armpits, until I was covered from head to foot in white suds. He tossed the cloth into the bath, splashing water over the floor, then positioned himself behind me and started rubbing my chest and stomach, my hips and, increasingly, my groin. I'd been sporting an erection ever since he got into the bath; now I felt that I might come again.

To my astonishment, the captain started to kiss the back of my neck, the lobes of my ears, licking and gently biting me as his
hands worked me over at the front. Soon he was concentrating exclusively on my cock; the slipperiness of his hand in the suds was almost unbearable. I could feel his cock grinding into me through the towel; I slipped a hand round his waist and it fell to the ground. Now there was nothing between us. He positioned his cock along the cleft between my buttocks and let it rest there while I squirmed in his grasp. I could feel his great heavy balls beating a tattoo against the top of my thighs.

Picking up his cane, the captain reached out and pulled open one of the great mahogany presses that lined one wall of his cabin. The door swung open, revealing a row of clean white shirts and dress uniforms - but my attention was caught by something much more interesting. There, on the inside of the door, was a full-length glass which, as it came to rest against the table, reflected the captain and me in a soapy embrace. I saw my own pale skin, the roundness of my muscles, my legs braced, bent at the knee, as the captain's strong arms embraced me, one hand running over my stomach, occasionally pinching a tit, the other gripping my cock. His mouth was at work on my ears, his cock was rubbing up and down my arse.

The captain had an expert touch; he knew from the tightness of my balls, and the hardness of my prick, that I would come at any moment. And so he relinquished his grip, stood me in the tub and emptied the rest of the copper over my head until the suds were all washed away. The water ran off the end of my cock like rain out of a blocked gutter. Dabbing himself with the towel, he sat down in one of the handsome brown leather armchairs that furnished his cabin.

‘Come here, boy.'

I stood in front of him, my cock throbbing with every beat of my heart. I badly wanted him to fuck me, and he knew it.

‘I have another job for you.'

‘Yes, sir.' My voice was shaking. God forgive me, however precarious
my position, I felt that I was already in love with the man.

‘You must shave me.' He indicated a straight razor, brush and soap that stood on the washstand.

‘Shave you?'

‘Yes. And no accidents.'

In silence, I lathered up the brush and covered his chin in thick white foam. The razor was clean and sharp; I steadied my hand and set to work. It was hard to concentrate, but soon I had him as smooth and clean as any professional barber.

‘And down below, please.'

I stood like an imbecile.

‘Mister Gordon. That is an order.'

He shifted forward in the chair, pushing his hips forward. His cock, still engorged, was lying over his thigh.

I lathered up again and applied the foam around his groin, over his balls, then, holding his cock out of harm's way with one hand, made my first tentative stroke with the razor. It glided across his groin leaving clean, bare skin in its wake.

How easily I could have unmanned him! Just one swift motion of the razor...

Two strokes, three, four, and his bush had gone completely. His cock had now come fully to life in my hand. I let it drop against his stomach and moved down on to his balls. Pulling them down slightly so they were tight in their sac gave me the best results, and soon they too were clean as a whistle. I picked up the cloth and rinsed him down with clean water.

The sight of his bare crotch was extraordinary. Of course, his cock looked bigger; there was also something incongruous about the smooth hairless groin and the powerful, masculine physique. The contrast was dizzying.

I dropped to my knees and started to lick all around where I had just shaved. I took each egg-like ball in my mouth and marvelled at the smoothness of the skin. I licked up and down the captain's cock
until it was covered in my spit, then rubbed my face around it until I was just as wet. The captain shifted forward a little more and spread his legs, directing me further down. His arse was still hairy, and I lost no time in letting my tongue burrow through the damp fur until it reached his hole. It opened up to my eager caresses and I delved up into the soft, salty centre of the man.

When I came up for breath the captain was sweating, his cock drooling. He hoisted his knees in the air and spread his buttocks, looking at me with an expression that said more clearly than any words that he wanted me to fuck him. I was disappointed at first; I had been so inflamed by the feeling of his cock pressing into my arse, and the fact that he was the captain, the man in charge, so much older and more experienced than me, that I had wanted nothing more than for him to fuck me for the rest of the voyage. Now, however, I was struck by the reversal of our stations: there he lay, a man of forty or so, a leader of men, with a crotch shaved as smooth as a baby's, holding open his hole and begging me to fill it.

I took a handful of the fragrant liquid from the bottle, smeared it over my cock and knelt before him. He rested his calves on my shoulders and steered himself on to me. At first he was too tight, and I couldn't get in. I pushed harder, and half my cock slipped inside him. His face was contorted with pain, but he didn't cry out. I pulled out again, gave him time to recover, then renewed my assault. This time I encountered no resistance, and I slid into his hot, smooth tunnel until my hips were pressing into the back of his thighs.

I kept the pace slow; I wanted to prolong the moment. The captain never took his eyes from mine. With one hand he toyed with my balls, felt my cock as it slid in and out of him; with the other he supported his head. His prick bounced and throbbed between us.

We fucked for five, ten minutes. Every time I felt I was about to come I stopped, pulled out and allowed myself to cool down; the captain's eyes implored me to come back. Finally, however, it was
too much. I picked up the pace and began to fuck him with a will. He threw his head back and started wanking, pulling on my balls all the while. Just as I started to squirt my load inside him, he sprayed his chest and stomach with a great volume of come, some of which ran down his shaven groin. I pulled out of his arse and licked every drop of semen from his body. I fell asleep with my head in his lap.

Dearest Charles

 

 

My circumstances have changed radically since last I wrote. I have come through the valley of the shadow of death, and I find myself unexpectedly alive and, what is more, able once again to write to you. Whether you receive these outpourings I will never know; it is enough for me that, on some plane, I can communicate with you.

My solitary incarceration here in the castle lasted for another week or so after last I wrote; I lost track of the days, to tell you the truth. My friend the guard never visited me after that last time; I do not know whether he has been moved from the prison, or simply found another to amuse him. I feel certain that he did not abandon me by choice, but that may simply be a reflection of my own need to believe in some spark of human goodness in the misery that has surrounded me for so long.

Bread and water were delivered to me daily, and the slops passed out, but I grew painfully thin despite my best efforts to keep myself fit. I have always been lean, but now the flesh had dropped away from my bones, leaving every muscle and tendon in sharp relief. It was no longer comfortable to sit on the cell floor; my poor backside had dwindled away, and my
bones were grinding into the stone. I spent more and more time lying inert on my mattress, daydreaming.

I suppose the worst part of my ordeal lasted for another week. I will not trouble you with the mental torments that I went through; suffice to say that it was the image of you, the one bright thing in my life, that kept me sane. Finally one morning I heard the keys in my cell door and prepared to slop out; instead two guards stepped into the room and, pulling me to my feet, marched me down the corridor. It was the first time I had stepped outside my cell, and my legs could barely walk along the passage. They half carried me, half dragged me to the governor's room.

I was left outside with one of the guards standing over me; the other passed through the door, and before long I could hear two or more voices raised in argument. The door flew open, and there stood a man I took to be the governor: a fat, red-faced, white-haired creature who looked me up and down with utter contempt, turned to cover his nose and walked away. Another came out: a tall, lean, sunken-faced man who surveyed me through a pair of green spectacles as if I were a curiosity at the zoological gardens. A third - younger than the others, with a pale shiny face and abundant carbuncles - took his place, spat on the ground beside me, and retired. The door was slammed again, but the debate continued. Two of them - the younger one and the thin one, I assumed from their voices - were in favour of taking me straight down to the courtyard and cutting off my head. The other counselled caution; I may be a spy, but I was a priest. If the French heard that they had murdered a priest...