The Low Road (25 page)

When I was good and wet again, Wilmott lifted me slightly, shifted himself backwards on the floor and pressed his cock against my bum. I put my weight on to the soles of my feet, raised myself and sat on it. In this position, I was in control of the fuck, and could let my hands roam all over his chest while I bounced around on his prick like a child on a rocking-horse. I tore off the scarlet tunic which I had worn all through our masquerade; Wilmott reached up and took one of my nipples and then the other between thumb and forefinger, pinching and rolling them until they stood out like little cocks.

After a few minutes of this, I was ready to come again, and the general's stomach was slick with the droolings from my over-stimulated dick. But before the crisis was reached, he stopped my bucking and lifted me off.

‘My turn now, Eddie.'

‘Sir?'

‘You don't think I'm going to let you go before I've had that thing inside me, do you?' He gave my cock a playful squeeze. ‘Wade said nothing about that. What's wrong with him? I've never seen a better.'

Thank God his brain was clouded by lust; sooner or later he'd start guessing that I was not the same boy who had been taking care of General Wade for the last few weeks.

Wilmott rolled over on to his front and raised his arse in the air like a dog. ‘Take it easy, son. It's a long, long time since anything went up there.'

I couldn't believe my luck. The general's arse was as solid as the rest of him, densely furred, warm and sweaty. I dived in with my mouth, burrowing through the thick black hair until I hit my target. I swirled my tongue around it, getting as much spit into the area as possible; the hair now lay flat, exposing his pink ring more fully to the eye. It was a memorable sight: the veteran campaigner offering his arse to a twenty-year-old, his hand working on his cock in anticipation of the onslaught to come.

I lost no time in plugging him before he changed my mind. I guessed from the way that he'd fucked me that the general was not one for gentle treatment; instead I just spat on my cock, slicked myself up and tore in. He bellowed with pain, and his hand just worked faster on his prick. I fucked him as hard as I could, the thought going round and round in my brain that I had one of the most powerful men in the country squirming on the end of my fat cock. I suspect that the poignancy of the situation was not lost of General Wilmott either, as he slammed his arse against me to increase the battery. I felt him tighten around me as another huge load spilled out of his horse-cock on to the rug; five strokes later, and I let loose inside him. I collapsed on top of him and we lay together in each other's arms until we dozed.

The general was greatly pleased with my performance and, when we had woken and had dressed, he announced that I would be the guest of honour at a ‘small private party' in the officers' mess that evening. He informed his chief of staff that he would be taking the rest of the afternoon off, and invited me to join him on a tour of the camp which, he said, ‘I would like you to regard as your home'.

This was by far the most tempting of the many propositions I had received on my journey. As the general's companion I would be well fed, watered and housed, I'd have all the sex I could want
with a man whom I genuinely desired and admired, and I could see scope for all sorts of amorous adventures with the soldiers who populated the camp. Judging from the number of appraising glances that were directed towards my posterior as we crossed the parade ground, the general was not alone in his taste for boys. Had I been of a less tenacious disposition, I might be living there still; might, perhaps, be keeping a boy of my own.

The garrison housed one hundred and twenty men in clean, comfortable dormitories around two sides of the courtyard. In the main block at the front were the officers' quarters, the kitchens and the messes; at the rear, stretching along most of the fourth side, was a slightly shoddy building that resembled a small hotel, in and out of which members of all ranks were issuing regularly.

‘That,' said Wilmott, indicating the house with a sweep of his arm, ‘is my favourite brainchild, the whorehouse.'

He led me in through the main door, where a group of soldiers were sprawling in chairs, reading newspapers, smoking pipes. They sprang to attention.

‘As you were, men. An unofficial visit. Just showing a visitor round the village shop.' The men relaxed and laughed. ‘Looks like a busy day, soldier,' he said to one handsome young brute, no older than me.

‘Yes, sir. We all have to wait our turn.'

‘Time to recruit some more girls, I suppose.'

‘Yes, sir!' The men greeted the suggestion with wolflike eagerness. The general and I left them in peace.

‘Nothing is so dangerous as an army that isn't getting its oats, Ned,' he said, putting an arm round my shoulder as we strolled across the parade ground, ‘and, unfortunately, not all the soldiers share our excellent good taste in these matters. Life would be so much easier if they'd all just fuck each other, and I could save a fortune in board and lodgings. As it is, I've made provision for a dozen or so local women. They're paid and well housed, and they
have the best-looking clients of any whore in the kingdom, as you can see.' Indeed, I had been thinking just how lucky the women were in their choice of clientele.

‘Aren't you tempted to take care of a few of the men yourself, sir?' I asked, intrigued by the potential for relations between the ranks.

‘Of course!' Wilmott laughed. ‘But only those who are interested. Plenty of them have... what shall I say? Paddled in those waters. They know where to come if they have the urge. Most of them, however, lack the imagination.' He sighed. ‘And it's not in my interests, as the commander of an army of occupation, to upset them.'

It was difficult to fault his pragmatism. My heart sank, though, when I thought of all those hard cocks going to waste (as I'm afraid I thought) in the hands of a bunch of women. How glad I was to be of the services of that whorehouse I would soon discover.

We spent the afternoon over tea in the general's private quarters, and I was disappointed that he didn't fling me to the floor and ravish me among the silver muffin dishes. ‘No, Ned,' he said with a smile, as I kept reaching for his cock, ‘we must save ourselves for this evening.' No questions of mine would elicit further details about the forthcoming entertainment. ‘You will simply have to wait and see. I want it to be a surprise.'

At around six o'clock the general went to inspect the men, and I was escorted to a small room where luxurious washing facilities had been provided for me. I bathed, availed myself of the various perfumed oils on offer, and dressed in the freshly-pressed shirt and suit that had been left out for me. Inspecting myself in the mirror, I felt every inch the dandy. My shoes had been taken away and cleaned while I soaked in the tub; the leather shone as never before. I watched the general in action on the parade ground beneath me, strolling up and down the uniformed ranks with a friendly word here, a touch on the shoulder or the chin there. The
men seemed well disposed towards him. Perhaps, I thought, the English army wasn't all bad. I began to consider my future in a different light. Of course, for the moment I had completely forgotten the existence of Benoit Lebecque, so susceptible was I to bodily pleasure.

I had drifted off into a pleasant daydream about my life as an army whore, and looking forward to my next bout with General Wilmott, when my lustful reveries were disturbed by a sharp rap at the door, followed almost immediately by the entrance of a young soldier.

‘Message from the general, sir!'

His words were respectful, but the grin that accompanied them was anything but. His eyes had lighted immediately on the erection that my new suit trousers did little to conceal.

‘Yes?'

‘Your presence requested in the officers' mess.'

‘Lead on.' I stood up, making sure that he got a good eyeful. I would take care of this one at a later date, I decided.

‘Yes sir!' The soldier conducted me downstairs and opened a large pair of polished oak doors. All was dark within, with just the glint of candlelight on silverware.

‘The young man, sir!'

Wilmott's voice sounded from the gloom. ‘Very good, show him in.'

The soldier stood aside and motioned me inwards, imparting a pinch to my bum as he did so. The door closed behind me.

At first all I could make out was a multiplicity of candles in glass jars standing in a row about three feet from where I was standing. Each was backed by a tin reflector, directing the golden light straight into my eyes; beyond that, I could make out little except vague shapes.

‘Good evening, Ned!' Wilmott's voice again, rising above the muted conversation of half a dozen others.

‘Good evening, sir.' I shaded my eyes and peered into the room. There was Wilmott in full dress uniform, his sword strapped on; around him sat five of his fellow officers, most of them younger than him, none of them less than thirty. They whispered in each other's ears and looked up at me. I seemed to be standing on a raised platform, about two feet above the floor. Combined with the lights, it created a pretty good makeshift theatre. Beyond the party of smoking, laughing, drinking officers, a banquet was laid out on a long mahogany table.

‘Ned, I would like to introduce you to the
crème de la crème
of the Glasgow garrison, who have gathered here tonight to welcome you as a valued new member of our community.' As he called out their names (I forget them now) each stood and saluted. They were of various heights, builds and colourings, some fair, some dark, some of them bald like Wilmott, others with fine heads of hair falling across their foreheads. One in particular struck me - his name, I think, was Miles - an aristocratic-looking English soldier with floppy, pale-brown hair and a kind expression.

‘Now, Ned, I'm afraid I have given you something of a build-up in your absence, and my fellow officers here have accused me of exaggeration in my description of your charms. I wonder if you would care to settle the argument?'

How could I refuse? ‘Certainly, sir. How would you -?'

‘Perhaps if you could entertain us with a little display.'

I was not quite sure what he meant. ‘Sir?'

‘Take your clothes off, boy. Slowly. We would like a show. A performance.'

The idea of an audience was certainly appealing; the element of humiliation inherent in the situation added spice. One of the officers, a dandified forty-year-old of Mediterranean appearance, struck up a tune at the spinet-a slow, blowsy sounding number.

At first I stood still, uncertain what to do. But Wilmott was looking up with an encouraging smile, squeezing his crotch in
promise of future bliss. I took centre stage and began to dance.

The audience was appreciative, and regaled me with a running commentary on my performance, mostly relating to the curve of my arse when I turned round, or the volume of my bulge when I faced front. First of all I removed my jacket and unlaced the front of my shirt, making sure that they got a good view of my hard, defined torso, even pulling the fabric aside to show my nipples, which were once again as hard as bullets. The show was going well; a couple of the officers were openly rubbing their crotches.

I pulled the shirt over my head and danced around for a while, allowing them to appreciate the details of my upper body which showed up well in the golden glow of the candlelight. Next I kicked off my shoes and peeled off the thin cotton socks that had been provided for me; Wilmott snatched one of them up and pressed it to his face. My accompanist, impatient perhaps for what was to come, sped up the pace of his playing.

There was nothing for it: the trousers had to go next. I inched them down, then up, down, then up, earning myself a barrage of good-natured abuse from the audience who had decided that I was a prick-tease of the most delightful nature. Miles, the handsome creature with the floppy hair, was rubbing the outline of a hard cock that seemed to stretch halfway to his knee.

Finally I threw the trousers in a corner, and was left in a pair of loose white shorts which did little to restrain my manhood, which was bouncing around inside them and leaving little damp evidences of my excitement all over the front of the garment. I turned round and pulled the back down, revealing my bum - to a gasp from the assembled company. Then I turned and pushed my cock down so that the head, still half sheathed in skin, appeared at the opening of my left leg. One or two of the officers had their hands inside their clothes, blatantly masturbating.

I was consumed by a desire to be fully naked and at their mercy, and so I whipped off the pants and continued my performance in
the nude, bending and thrusting in order to let them see every detail. The music had stopped; the only sound was my feet thumping on the boards, and the heavy breathing of the officers. They had left their chairs and were clustering around the front of the stage, reaching out towards me; at first I evaded their grasp, but soon allowed one or two of them to take liberties with me.