The Secret Tunnel (29 page)

I slipped out of the room and looked across the landing. Laughter and conversation came from behind the door. I looked in—and there was a full-scale orgy in progress. No cages here, no cruel padlocks—just couches and rugs on which sprawled, perhaps, two dozen men in every imaginable combination. Normally I would have dived straight in, like a little boy finding a swimming hole on a hot summer’s day—but for once I was looking not for a dick to suck or an ass to fuck, but for some way of extricating myself and my loved ones from a potentially lethal situation.

A couple of men near me were fucking hard on a chaise
longue, a rickety old piece of furniture covered in faded red velvet and ripped gold brocade, which creaked and swayed with each thrust. I didn’t recognize the boy on the bottom—he was a slim, athletic-looking youth with short blond hair. The man on top was naked except for a mask. He was powerfully built, tall and hairy, with a long, deep scar running the length of his left thigh. I recognized that scar; I had caressed it myself only the day before. My soldier from the train—the one with whom I had fucked Bertrand in the conductor’s car. The sergeant.

If he was here, he was almost certainly in the pay of Dickinson. I assumed that we had been lured to the conductor’s car for a reason—to keep us out of the way. But he had struck me as a decent man, and he was after all a member of His Majesty’s armed forces, down in London on royal guard duty. Surely he would help me…

It was a ridiculous gamble—almost suicidal, I now think—but I went up behind the sergeant, clutched his meaty ass, and whispered in his ear, “What do you think the King would say if he could see you now?”

He stopped in midfuck, and looked toward me. His eyes glinted through the slits in his mask and he looked me up and down, uncertain at first, but then, when he reached my dick, recognizing me.

“The American.”

Well, apparently my cock had made a lasting impression.

“Sergeant.”

“You want to join me?” He moved aside, so that I could see his prick sliding out of the young man’s ass.

“Not right now. I need something else.”

“You can’t fuck me, if that’s what you had in mind. I don’t do that.”

The sergeant, like many of his type I had met in Edinburgh, was remarkably single-minded.

“I don’t want to fuck you.” This was a lie, but now was no time for honesty. “I need your help.”

“Oh, aye. To do what, precisely?”

“Someone tried to kill me.”

“Fuck off, man. You’re drunk.”

“I’ve never been more sober in my life. Dickinson—”

“What about Dickinson?” The sergeant’s cock slipped out of the young man’s ass; the empty hole gaped, and the boy looked up to see what was going on. Seeing not one but two men standing over him, he smiled, and starting playing with himself, caressing his balls and fingering his ass.

“He’s a killer.”

“Bollocks.”

“He murdered that man on the train—”

“He did not.”

“He tried to kill Hugo Taylor, and me, and he’s threatened to kill my friends.”

“Prove it.”

“Come with me.”

He looked from me to the boy, from the boy to me, as if struggling between pleasure and duty. I could take no chances, so I grabbed him by the cock—it was still rock hard—and led him from the room, jerking him gently as we crossed the corridor.

“Well, you’ve got my attention now, mate. What’s this all about?”

“Come with me.”

I led him into the other room, where the stalls were still in use.

“Look in the central one.”

“Why?”

“Tell me if you recognize what’s there.”

The sergeant, thank God, lacked manners, and barged up to the stalls, pushing people out of the way and hauling one man straight out of Bertrand’s ass. They were about
to remonstrate, but when they saw the size of the sergeant, they thought better of it.

“What about it? It’s an arsehole.”

“Look closer. Doesn’t it look familiar?”

“Come on, man. You don’t expect me to recognize a bum.”

People were forming small, concerned groups around the edge of the room.

“You should. You’ve fucked it.”

The sergeant knelt before the stall, the asshole at eye level. He felt it. He touched it. Finally, he tasted it, delving around with his tongue.

“It’s that French lad.”

Was it my imagination, or did Bertrand’s asshole twitch in nationalistic indignation?

“Exactly.”

“And what the fuck is he doing here?”

“He was abducted and drugged. As was I.”

A couple of masked revelers were moving toward the door. The sergeant sprang to his feet.

“Stay right the fuck where you are,” he snarled. There was a gasp. He strode toward the door and kicked it shut.

“Time to shed a little light on matters.” He flicked a switch, and the room was fully illuminated. The partygoers cowered, trying to hide.

Dickinson addressed the room. “I thought this was a straightforward fuck party. But my friend here tells me it’s something quite different. Now, does anyone have anything to say?” A couple of men advanced toward him, as if they thought they might get past him. The sergeant picked up a chair and smashed it over their heads. They fell to the ground, their cocks lolling over their thighs.

“Anyone else?” The odds were now considerably reduced. “I thought not. Now, let’s see what we’re dealing with. Unmask.”

Nobody seemed in a great hurry to reveal their true identities, apart from the sergeant and me. We both whipped off the horrible silk strips and threw them on the floor. His face was angry, brutal—but, I thought, honest.

“My name is Sergeant Robert Langland of the Scots Guards,” he announced, glaring at the cringing figures, their dicks shriveling quickly. “Our motto is ‘nemo me impune lacessit,’ which, roughly translated, means fuck with me at your own peril. Now, show your faces.”

He picked up a broken chair leg and brandished it like a saber. Nobody doubted that he would use it.

One by one the masks dropped to the floor, and a sorrier bunch of sex fiends I have never seen. Hair was wet with sweat, plastered down or sticking up; I was instantly reminded of Laurel and Hardy. The men were of various ages and states of preservation; some were young and firm, others were running to fat. The confidence with which they’d assaulted those caged mouths and asses had evaporated.

“Well, well, well,” said Langland. “What have we here? Your Eminence.”

One of the larger, older gentlemen buried his face in his hands.

“And the shadow home secretary, I believe.”

“Oh, God,” sighed a middle-aged man with a very pendulous pair of balls, “how did you know?”

“You never look at the faces of the men who serve you—but we see yours. That’s one of the advantages of a uniform. Now, gentlemen, you have a choice. You can continue resistance, and be sure that, if you survive, your careers will be over in the morning. Or you can help us. What is it to be?” He slapped the chair leg into his hand as he strode around the room. His cock was no longer fully erect, but was still standing out from his thighs, swaying as he walked. Eyes were generally fixed on the chair leg, but occasionally flicked downward.

Langland stopped. “So, Bishop, what’s it to be? We look to you for a lead.”

“I… I… Well, really… Oh, dear…”

“Good man.” Langland clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, how about joining me in some good works, and freeing these poor souls from bondage.”

“But how?”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Hey! Mitchell!”

He had remembered my name; I was flattered. “Yes?”

“There’s a fire extinguisher in the hall. Go get it.”

“Yes, sir!”

It was a large, metal contraption, so heavy I could barely drag it along the floor. Langland lifted it in both hands, the muscles standing out in his arms, and raised it above his head.

“Stand clear, lads,” he said. “We’re going in.”

The fire extinguisher came down with a smash on the end of the stalls, snapping the padlock and twisting the metal bar almost to 90 degrees. Langland moved to the other end and delivered a second blow. The rest of us moved in to pull the wretched structure to pieces and release its sorry captives.

I will not dwell on the condition in which we found them. Those who were conscious were in great pain, their arms and legs contorted into awkward positions, their mouths and asses bruised and sore. Others were unconscious but still breathing—to them I gave my most urgent attention. One was beyond help. The Bishop knelt over his body, deep in prayer.

BERTRAND, THANK GOD, WAS AMONG THE CONSCIOUS, although he was in great pain and terrible distress. I comforted him as best I could, holding him as he clung, panting, sweating, and wild-eyed, to my naked body. I kissed him and rocked him like a baby, wondering if he would ever recover from this nightmare.

Langland was stomping around the room with a look of fury on his face, his mouth contorted in a snarl, his eyes wet with tears. “Wait till I get my hands on that fucking bastard,” he said. “He told me nothing of this—nothing.”

“Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

We put our masks back on—a necessary precaution—and left the shamed churchmen, MPs, and whatever else they were to look after Bertrand and the others.

Out on the landing, Langland moved silently, like a huge cat. He signaled to the stairs, and we descended swiftly, both barefooted. I couldn’t help admiring his huge, solid buttocks as he went before me; I remembered how they’d rippled as he pumped into Bertrand’s ass on the train.

Looking down the stairwell, I could see the entrance hall where Marchmont had greeted me; we must now be on the floor above the reception room where we had sat sipping gin only a few hours ago. He had said that the place would be transformed; how right he was!

On this floor there were more rooms—bedrooms, I supposed, for members and their guests—four doors leading off the landing. Anything could be going on behind those doors, and I shuddered at the thought of more nightmarish contraptions like the one we had just demolished upstairs—but Langland beckoned me on.

The party was in full swing in the reception room. Thirty or 40 guests, some fully dressed, others in costume, circulated and talked. They were being served drinks by three naked waiters bearing trays. I recognized them, of course: McDonald, Ken, and the little redhead, Sergeant Langland’s brothers in arms. So this was how the guards supplemented their notoriously low wages. Hands swooped in from above to take drinks, and from below to caress cocks.

These details aside, it could have been any cocktail party, anywhere in London. There were even a few ladies present—some of whom, I suspected, may not have been quite as female as they appeared. But there, to my astonishment, was Kiki Preston, Prince George’s companion—and, yes, there in the corner, talking to Hugo Taylor, was the royal person himself.

How much did they know about what was going on upstairs?

Marchmont drifted around like a busy bee, gorgeously arrayed in a Chinese silk kimono, glitter on his cheeks and his eyes outlined in kohl. He was certainly the oldest of the Bright Young Things.

Langland grabbed a tray of drinks from the sideboard and motioned to me to do likewise; if we could pose as staff, we might not arouse suspicion. As I circulated, I was
groped, grabbed, and poked from all angles. Even Prince George weighed my prick in his hand while taking a glass of champagne, as if he was testing a piece of fruit before buying. Well, that would be something to tell the grandchildren I would never have. Beats dancing with a man who’s danced with a girl who’s danced with the Prince of Wales: his brother squeezed my dick.

While I was being royally manhandled, Langland was circulating through the room and, between handing out drinks, whispering in his subordinates’ ears.

Suddenly, without any signal being given, the lights went out. Several people screamed. I heard a scuffle and a thud, and the lights came back on. Langland and his three soldiers were standing with their backs to the door. Marchmont lay unconscious on the ground—and Langland was holding a key.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, in his gruff Scottish accent, “please do not panic. There is plenty of drink to go round. Enjoy yourselves.”

He pushed me out the door. When we were all on the landing, he turned the key in the lock.

“That’ll keep them out of mischief,” he chuckled. “Now, lads, this way.”

They disappeared down the stairs without making a noise, and were quickly lost to sight.

It was time for me to find some clothes. There were enough of them strewn around the landing, hanging from the banisters and even from the dusty chandelier, for me to put together some kind of ensemble. It might not have passed muster in Mayfair, but here at the Rookery it would do. Bizarre I may have looked—a pair of black dress pants, far too large for me, held up with an Old Harrovian tie, a dinner jacket with no shirt, just a stiff shirt front held in place with a celluloid collar, bare feet—but I was no stranger than some of the other partygoers.

Where had Langland gone, and what had he told his men
to do? I had not told him of Joseph, and the danger I feared for Morgan and the rest of my friends. Perhaps Langland had double-crossed me. I felt horribly powerless. Now that the excitement of my escape had worn off, I was groggy and nauseated. I would have been no use at all in a fight.

Holding on to the banister, I made my way slowly down to the ground floor, ignoring the thumps and cries from the reception room. The only way out of there was by the window—and I didn’t think many of that crowd would be willing to risk their necks, or spill a drop of blue blood, in the attempt.

And there, standing in the hallway looking somewhat perplexed, was the one person I wanted to see above all others: Morgan. His brow was furrowed, as I had so often seen it when he was wrestling with some (to him) complex problem. Woozy as I felt, it made me smile. I ran down the rest of the stairs with a lighter heart.