The Low Road (17 page)

‘Turn the paper over,' he said I did as I was told. Stretching out his legs, he unbuttoned the horizontal fly on his trousers and released a member that was as big as the rest of him. It flopped out and rested on the floor.
Grasping my hand, he positioned the sheet of paper underneath his cock, so that I was holding it. It was growing rapidly; within a minute or so it was too big to fit on the sheet of paper, and the head was rubbing against my forearm. I shifted back a little to fit it on, and, discerning his intentions, traced its outline with my pen. My artwork completed, I held it up for his inspection. He seemed delighted. I inscribed the words ‘Thinking of you always,' folded the letter up and addressed it according to his instructions. He hid the letter under the mattress to be smuggled out later, and emptied the ink over the sleeping form of one of the inmates.

His prick, however, he was in no hurry to put away. ‘Once it's up,' he said, ‘it stays up until I make it go down.' He started absent-mindedly pulling on it, closing his eyes and, presumably, summoning up images of Margaret to help him on his way. I couldn't tear my eyes away. The sight of his huge, calloused hand working on that long, fat cock, the foreskin sliding over the head as the chains that bound his wrists jangled quietly, held me in a spell. I was so engrossed in the spectacle I did not notice that Morgan had opened his eyes and was looking down at me. His hand came to a rest. I looked up and caught his quizzical scowl. Was he going to chastise me for my imprudence? No: instead he moved his hand away and, still scowling, as if uncertain of what to do next, let his cock jump and twitch in the air. Looking around to check that we were not observed, I reached out and took it in my grip. Morgan closed his eyes again and allowed me to do whatever I wanted.

I caressed every inch of his cock and balls, admiring the weight and thickness, marvelling at the smoothness of the skin and the roughness of the hair surrounding it. I worked the tip of my finger into the little hole, and heard a satisfied grunt from somewhere above. I slapped the shaft against the flat of my palm, and was gratified to see that it bounced back even stiffer than before. Drips of fluid were appearing at the head, and I
bent down to lick them off. At the first contact of my tongue, Morgan opened his eyes again. Perhaps he was about to object, I don't know; I did-n't wait to find out. Instead I slid my mouth as far down his cock as it would go. I had only ever done this once before, with the brother of my friend long, long ago in France, and I made a fumbling, inexpert job of it. I think it must have been uncomfortable for Morgan; maybe it was the scraping of my teeth, or the scratching of my stubble against his balls, but he pulled out of my mouth and sat for a while in thought. Then inspiration seemed to strike.

He pulled me to him, parted my thighs and tore open the seam at the back of my trousers, making a rent just wide enough to expose my arse to the air. I knew full well what was coming, and I was frightened. I had never taken the passive part before, but I knew from my few experiences of this kind of thing that it can be painful for the ‘female' partner. My guard had taken my rude batterings without complaint, and seemed to find pleasure in them. But I knew there would be pain first.

Still sitting with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him, Morgan lifted me on to his lap; my chains were just long enough to allow it. A little more tearing and my own cock was free, springing up against his, their undersides glued together. He spat on his fingers and spread the saliva against my arsehole, working first one, then two fingers into me. It was uncomfortable, no more, and after a while I grew accustomed to the feeling and began to enjoy it. Another finger, and I was soon riding up and down in earnest. He pulled them out, and I knew that the biggest test was about to come.

I raised myself as high as I could to allow the head of his cock to make contact with my opening then, holding my cheeks open with my hands, lowered myself slowly on to him. It hurt, of course, but I was past caring. My cock was still entirely rigid, translating each sensation of pain into one
of pleasure. Morgan grunted and buried himself inside me. I put my arms around his neck and he buried his face against my chest as he began to fuck me. When we broke apart after a few minutes, the hair on his stomach was plastered down by the juices that had been flowing out of my cock.

Morgan half stood up; I clung round his neck and kept my arse clamped tight around his cock. Now that I had it, I was in no hurry to relinquish it. Laying me gently on to his mattress, so that I was lying on my back, he picked up my legs, pulled a little way out of my arse and began his battery in earnest. My feet were weighed down with the chains that jangled with every thrust, but I could do nothing; my whole being was focused below. My head was thrown back, and I could see quite clearly that two or three of the other prisoners were watching the show, some of them masturbating openly. I didn't care; if anything, it added to my pleasure. Strive as we might, Charles, we are all animals. I was no better than any of them. How could I be, lying on my back in a filthy prison cell taking the cock of some great shaven-headed brute up my backside?

I spread my legs as wide as they would go, took hold of my penis and stroked it back into a full erection; it had subsided somewhat during the battering of my hole. Morgan shifted his weight on to his hands, braced his feet against the wall and pistoned into me. Something in this new position found a spot inside me that I never knew existed and, before I could prevent it, I was squirting all over my hand, my stomach, on to the floor, even on to the wall behind Morgan, where a glob of sperm ran down the damp stone and puddled on the floor. The stirring in my guts must have worked some magic on Morgan, who glued his mouth to mine, stuck his tongue down my throat and fucked me harder, harder, until by his grunting and thrusting I knew that he was coming inside me. The other prisoners, inspired by the sight, added their own contributions. The cell was heavy with the odour of male sexual pleasure.

I let my legs, stiff with pain, fall down at last; Morgan pulled out and wiped his cock on his blanket, then stretched out on the mattress. He held out his arm and signalled for me to join him. And so we slept again, our limbs, and our chains, entwined.

The rest of my sojourn at Fort William has been a holiday compared to the preceding weeks. As Morgan's ‘wife' I am ignored, if not respected, by the rest of the prison. At least there have been no more attempts to hurt me. The guards, all of them corrupt, smuggle letters for Morgan and, at his request, for me; it is him you have to thank for this, Charles, if you ever receive it. I spend the days chained to the wall, but well fed and watered, telling stories to Morgan and any other prisoners who care to listen. I draw pictures to entertain them - mostly what you might call ‘erotic' sketches, although I fear that my limited artistic abilities render nothing more than crude diagrams. At Morgan's request, I attempted a portrait of Margaret, using our usual reddish brown ink for the outline, and a special blue tint worked up from the dye in his trousers to represent her eyes. Morgan even asked me to draw a picture of my ‘loved ones'; I executed, very badly, a portrait of you, Charles, with which he seemed pleased enough. I secreted it inside my clothes, where it remains.

At night I am Morgan's property exclusively. Some of the other prisoners have attempted to ‘borrow' me while he is asleep, but fortunately for me the limitations of our chains, and their fear of the big man's displeasure, have protected me from anything worse than visual offence. My protector is a man of prodigious appetites, and fucks me every night before we sleep, every morning when we wake, and sometimes in between times. He is always affectionate, and considerate of my satisfaction as well as his own.
I have grown accustomed to the experience, and am learning how to give more pleasure to both of us. If this is the worst I have to fear, I am well content. It is not how I would have imagined my life turning out, but it is not such a bad fate. My chief regret is that I may never share my new-found expertise with the one I would most dearly wish to.

When we lie together in the dark, as the rest of the prison sleeps around us, he tells me often of his plans to escape from Fort William and return to Margaret and his child. One of the guards, he believes, will release him from his chains and wink at his departure. I fear that this is a vain fantasy, but I do not tell him so.

I will close now. The guard is ready to take our messages to the outside world. How long is it since I saw you, Charles? It seems a lifetime away, a different world Do not imagine that, because I have found a friend here, that I have forgotten you.

 

Your servant

BL

My naval career prospered. So impressed was Captain Moore with my performance, both as barber and lover, that he decided to retain my services - and to ‘lose' me as far as the English authorities were concerned. We continued our journey south to Liverpool, where Moore and the rest of the crew spent the night while I hid in the captain's cabin, safe from prying eyes. When Moore returned the next morning, he recounted an interview with General Wade's secretary at which he had concocted an elaborate story of how the ‘Jacobite Gordon' had been caught stealing rum and been murdered by the enraged crew, his body thrown overboard somewhere off the Scottish coast. The secretary was furious, demanding that the corpse at least be brought in evidence, but Moore span a yarn about how sailors, superstitious souls that they were, refused to have a dead man on board. And so, in the eyes of the law at least, I ceased to exist.

The crew returned from shore leave very green around the gills, and were quite silent as they prepared for our onward voyage. I can only assume that the brothels of Liverpool had been well and truly visited; most of the sailors boasted that they would fuck as many women as they could the moment their feet touched dry land. All of them claimed that they reserved ‘boy pussy' for sea voyages, although I was never sure how true this was. Some of
them, Dessert for instance, with his golden brown skin and dirty blond hair, seemed more than casually interested in the male sex.

The
Florida
continued its journey towards Ireland, where we were scheduled to pick up a group of nuns en route for a convent in England. God only knows how the
Florida
, with its crew of debauched sex-fiends, had ever secured this commission. I can only assume that Captain Moore had sweet-talked a gullible priest somewhere along the way.

As the captain's ‘body servant' I enjoyed almost total privilege for the rest of the voyage, and began to forget that I was supposedly engaged on a quest of honour. I was so pleased at having escaped the clutches of the redcoats, for which I greatly congratulated myself, that I was content to enjoy this maritime adventure for all it was worth. Remember, I had never set foot outside Scotland before, had been raised in seclusion by women and was hungry to see the world. The longest voyage I had ever taken was the crossing to and from Rum. And so I spent my days on the deck, where I was now immune from the baser attentions of the crew, and the nights in the captain's cabin.

Moore himself was besotted by me. He dressed me in his smartest clothes; they were too big for me, but I fancied that I cut a swagger among the crew. We bathed every day, and I grew accustomed to clean skin. We slept in the best sheets, and, when they were stiff with a night's spendings, sent them down on to deck to be washed by whichever poor unfortunate was on the laundry detail. How I loved my pampered status! I could order Dessert around, and he dared not disobey me. I deliberately walked over expanses of wet, freshly washed deck, just so that George or one of the other sailors would have to scrub them again. I know that they were furious with me, and would have liked nothing better than to catch me one night on deck and fuck some sense back into me; I found the sense of brooding resentment intoxicating.

The captain did everything he could for my pleasure. We spent
the first week of our voyage exclusively in each other's arms, but then he suggested that I might like to play with some of the crew. To that end, Dessert was ordered up to the cabin, forced to strip and suck my cock, then the captain's. I lay down on the bed and ordered Dessert to straddle me, and watched with delight his grimaces as my cock slid up inside him. The captain approached him from behind and added his cock to Déssert's already stretched hole. The midshipman shot a considerable load across my stomach while he was being thus doubly abused.

A few days later I suggested that my friend from the hold, with whom I had spent an interesting morning among the potato peelings, be brought to the cabin. I had been thinking a good deal about him, remembering his firm, hairy body, his sleepy, slightly simple expression, and the vigour with which he had fucked me. Much as I enjoyed playing the stud with the captain and Dessert, I was eager to get a dick up my arse again. The sailor stood nervously in the doorway as Moore gave his orders; within minutes he was naked, pushing his fat prick into my arse as I bent over the captain's table. Moore sat nearby, his feet on the table, watching our every move, encouraging us to shift ourselves so that he could see more clearly the sailor's cock ploughing in and out of my arse.