The Secret Tunnel (28 page)

“Frankie—you can clean him up.”

Joseph pulled out, Dickinson stepped away, and I felt Frankie’s tongue lapping at my body, licking up the rapidly cooling semen. He had his hand down his pants, wanking as he went. After a couple of minutes he sighed loudly and fell to the floor.

Dickinson adjusted his clothes; Joseph remained naked except for a pair of boots. He was a magnificent creature, huge and hirsute, his thighs as thick as tree trunks. His dick swung half way down to his knee; even limp and recently drained, it looked huge and powerful.

“Oh, my dear, what are you doing?” Frankie sounded worried. “What’s that thing? Put it away, for God’s sake!”

“Shut up, Laking.” I heard a blow and a yelp, saw Frankie sprawling on the ground. “Get out if you don’t want to watch.”

There was a sinister clang of metal on metal behind me, the glint of something reflective.

“Now then, Dr. Mitchell, this isn’t going to hurt much, as I’m sure you’ve told your patients a thousand times before. Just a little prick.”

Dickinson bent over me again, but this time, instead of waving his cock in my face, he was wielding a large hypodermic syringe filled with a clear liquid. The light from the single naked bulb gleamed on the metal and glass, twinkled at the tip of the cruel steel spike.

“What is it?”

“Something to put you to sleep. A good, long sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“That’s as may be, Mitch, but I am. Tired of your interference, your stupid questions, and your damnable ability to turn up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I need a rest—from you and your little friends.” He held the syringe up, depressed the plunger. “Say good night, Mitch.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Frankie struggling to his feet, rubbing his jaw where Dickinson had slugged him.

“Don’t be a fool, Dickinson,” I said. “People are looking for me.”

“Precisely. Isn’t that convenient? All my chickens coming home to roost. It’s as easy as one, two, three. I couldn’t have organized it better myself, Mitch. Thank you for doing my job for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“First of all, your little foreign friend. What’s his name?”

“Bertrand.”

“That’s him. A delicious hors d’oeuvre. He certainly got our juices flowing, didn’t he, Joseph?”

Joseph chuckled, a horrible low rumbling sound.

“Is he dead?”

Dickinson looked at his watch, scratched his chin. “Hmmm… Probably not quite. He should still be warm. Don’t want to put people off, do we.”

“What do you mean?”

“And now we have you, thanks to Frankie’s special martini recipe.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to kill him,” whined Laking.

“No, of course not. You thought we were just going to drug him and have a bit of fun, didn’t you, Frankie Boy? Thought that would be up your street. Watching me and Joseph fucking your boyfriend here.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Well, you can’t complain. You got a taste, didn’t you? Ate it all up like a good boy.” Dickinson shoved Frankie with his foot, causing him to stumble and fall again. I heard the sound of retching.

“You’re not going to waste it all, are you, Frankie?” Dickinson laughed as Frankie threw up. “Any minute now, Mitch, we expect your friend Morgan to arrive.”

“What do you know about Morgan?”

“Plenty. I haven’t decided quite what to do with him yet. Shall we let him play for a while, Mitch? Shall we let him fuck a few arses? Or shall we knock him on the head straight away and do what we did to you? What do you think he’d prefer?”

“Morgan’s no fool. He won’t let you—”

“Oh, I expect he will. He’ll do exactly what we tell him to do. Perhaps I’ll even let him administer the coup de grace to you.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t he? Not even to save the life of his wife and child?”

I had a horrible cold sensation in my throat and swallowed hard. I told myself I must’nt panic.

“Off you go now, Joseph. You know what you have to do.” Joseph grinned as he left the room, closing the door softly behind him. “Joseph is our welcoming committee,
you see. As soon as your friends arrive, he will be sure to take care of them. And now, Mitch, much as I enjoy your conversation, it’s time to put you to sleep. It’s such a shame that you’re going to miss out on all the fun that people will have with you while you’re unconscious. Just as little Bertrand hasn’t got a clue what’s happening to him.”

“You devil.”

“Thank you, my boy. I’ve been called worse.”

“You’re a disgrace to the police force.”

“That’s enough. Take your last look at the light, Mitch, before I switch it out for good.”

His silhouette came between me and the bulb, and I saw the gleam on the needle…

And then there was a rumble and a cry and a crash, and suddenly the light was dazzling my eyes again. I jerked my head to the right to see Frankie and Dickinson rolling on the floor. Dickinson held the hypodermic aloft, pushing Frankie’s face away with his other hand, but Frankie was crazed—biting, scratching, and kicking. And then the syringe started moving toward Frankie’s neck…inches away… Dickinson’s thumb found the plunger and guided it home…

A scuffle and a thud, and I saw a swift rolling movement, heard a yell from Dickinson that was quickly transformed into a cry of pain. Both men staggered to their feet. Frankie’s nose was bleeding. Dickinson was clutching his throat, grasping the syringe. A small trickle of blood ran down from the needle onto his collar. His eyes bulged, his mouth worked noiselessly as he stumbled around the room like a wounded bull. Then he sank to his knees and collapsed sideways on the floor.

“I never did like that man,” said Frankie, dabbing at his bloody nose. “Oh, look what a mess he’s made of me. I don’t mind rough treatment, but really, this is too much.”

“Is he dead?” I asked.

“God knows, dear. Whatever that stuff was, it seems to
have put him to bye-byes. I say, I’m most awfully sorry for poisoning your martini. It seemed like such a fun idea at the time—you know, knock-out drops and all that. A Mickey Finn, I believe you Americans call it. And, well, that great big Albanian ape, and our friend here.” He poked Dickinson’s inert form with an elegantly shod foot. “It was too much for a girl to resist. And having you at my mercy… Oh, dear.”

“Are you going to stand there talking all day, Frankie, or are you going to let me go?”

He paced around me. “Well, I must say I’m tempted to leave you as you are. I mean, it’s not every day I have a muscular, hairy young man bound hand and foot…” He ran a hand over my stomach and rummaged in my pubic bush. “But I suppose under the circumstances I had better do the decent thing.”

His nimble fingers undid the buckles that held my legs, and I was able to get myself into an upright kneeling position while he worked on the ropes around my wrists. I had been tied down to some kind of medical inspection chair, the sort of thing we use in hospitals for examining women, with stirrups for the legs.

My hands were soon free, and I rubbed my sore arms and legs. Frankie stood with his arms folded, looking at me.

“Oh, it does seem a shame to let you go.”

“Come on, give me a hand.” Between us, we lugged Dickinson’s inert form onto the inspection chair, and bound his wrists and ankles. He was still alive—whatever poison he was administering did not cause immediate death. If he woke up, I wanted to know where he was. He looked good tied up, and I was tempted to take a few vengeful liberties—but there was no time to lose.

“I don’t suppose you know where my clothes are, Frankie?”

“Now, that really is too much. You can’t really expect
me to let you dress.” He sighed again. “It’s just not my day. Here.” He threw me a small towel, which I could just about wrap around my waist. “Cover yourself with that.”

“But I have to go and find Bertrand… Warn Morgan… I can’t go out there in a towel.”

“Just wait and see, my dear,” said Frankie, opening the door. “It’s terribly informal.”

 

The corridor was warm and dimly lit, and I could hear a faint murmur of voices from other rooms. We appeared to be at the top of a very old house—above us was nothing but the ceiling and access to the roof, while stairs descended for several flights below. Judging by the general air of dilapidation, and the familiar smell of dust, we were in the Rookery Club. My heart sank. It was here that I had told Morgan to come and find me—and Simmonds, and Shipton, and Connor and Scott. Dickinson may be out of action for the time being, but his agents, including the brutal Joseph, were still at large, ready to pick people off as they entered the building. They were walking straight into a trap.

I crept down a couple of flights, with Frankie behind me. “Stay here,” Frankie mouthed, allowing his hands to roam around my chest before he slipped into one of the rooms.

He wasn’t gone for long. His face and hand appeared in the doorway, beckoning me in.

“As you can see, Mitch, you’re not exactly underdressed.”

The sight that met my eyes was like something out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Naked, masked figures, all male, some wearing elaborate footwear, others with artificial phalluses strapped around their hips, wandered through the semidarkness like predatory animals closing in on a kill. Beyond them was a row of wooden cots—at least, that’s what they most resembled—in which I could dimly discern human forms in strange contortions. People were positioned
at some of these cots, like men standing at a urinal.

“You’d better take this,” whispered Frankie, handing me a slip of black silk. “Here. Let me.” It was a mask, with slits for the eyes, that slipped over my head, covering the upper part of my face, leaving my mouth free. Frankie secured it at the back. “There. Just like any other partygoer.”

“Who are they? All these people?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised… The
haut monde
. Cabinet ministers. Bishops, probably. One doesn’t ask too many questions.”

“And in the stalls?”

Frankie shuddered. “Darling, I don’t know.”

“What, you mean—”

“I’d better go. I can see I’m not wanted in here.” It’s true—he was attracting a certain amount of hostile attention from our fellow revelers. “I shall go downstairs and make polite chitchat. This really isn’t my
tasse de thé
.”

The moment he left, I was surrounded by masked, prowling figures, who divested me of my towel and led me over to the row of cots. At closer quarters I could see that the cots presented a row of alternate mouths and ass-holes, all of them, judging by the hair distribution, male. Some were being fucked, mechanically and joylessly, others fingered.

Hands caressed my body, stroking my buttocks, brushing against my cock. Erect pricks were all around me, occasionally touching me.

The other guests—strange word for such sinister creatures—crowded around me, pushing me toward the row of holes, holding me by the shoulders and arms. They lined me up in the middle of the row, in front of what looked like a tasty, hairy little ass. Hands parted the cheeks, slapped them, played with the hole, plied it with Vaseline.

Other hands worked on me, bringing me to readiness, guiding the head of my cock to the target.

I was pushed from behind, and my dick, now hard again, slipped in.

It was a good, tight fit.

Muted applause broke around me, and the revelers went about their own business, seemingly content with my performance.

All I could see of my partner—or should I say victim?—was his ass, and a few inches of hairy thigh. The rest of his body was encased in a wooden construction. I was reminded of the traps out of which greyhounds are released at dog tracks.

I rested for a while, with my dick buried in this mysterious hole. I had managed to get erect, and the warm grip was keeping me that way—but I was by no means in the mood for fucking. The muscles gripping my cock seemed to be clenching and unclenching, as if ready for me. At least he was conscious, and seemingly willing… The clenching was powerful, rhythmic, alternating between long, tight squeezes and short, powerful grips. Short, short, short… Long, long, long… Short, short, short… And then a pause… And then the pattern repeated itself.

I had never come across such extraordinary control before. Almost as if the ass was speaking to me.

Short, short, short… Long, long, long… Short, short, short… And then a pause…

And then again.

At first I couldn’t believe it. I waited, not moving my cock, which was rock hard thanks to this pulsing grip.

But yes, here it was again. The same pattern, the same rhythm.

I was being signaled by an asshole in Morse code. And it was signaling SOS.

What should I do? I was seriously outnumbered—and I didn’t think that the other guests would join me in a rescue mission. I could, perhaps, tackle a couple of them, but
there were at least eight others in the room. I’d be overpowered, and find myself boxed into one of these hellish contraptions—which was undoubtedly Dickinson’s plan for me. I would be fucked all night, and then killed. It was not a prospect I relished.

I reached down and caressed the ass I was fucking in what I hoped was a reassuring way. I felt certain, from the texture of the skin, the distribution of the hair, the tightness of the hole, that this was Bertrand. I leaned forward, pressed my mouth against the wooden casing, and murmured “It’s okay, little buddy. Mitch is here, and I’m going to get you out of there alive, I promise.” I doubt if he could hear me—and the action exposed me to curious glances from either side. I needed help. Bertrand would have to wait. The stalls were all held closed with a long brass bar that passed through metal rings before being padlocked in place at either end. I needed keys—or a gun. Nothing else would do. And I needed manpower.

I mimed an orgasm (and to be honest, that was the best I was going to achieve for a few hours, after my recent draining) and withdrew from Bertrand’s ass. Another took my place. Stepping away, leaving Bertrand to further torture, was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. But I could not betray my feelings, and I was glad that I was wearing a mask.