The Low Road Page 2

  I was so overwhelmed by this barrage of new sensations that I had no real idea of what was happening to me, only that I was approaching something at breakneck speed. When Alexander rubbed his hand down my sweating stomach, through my wiry, golden pubic hair, and finally grasped my cock, my head stopped spinning and I had a moment of total clarity in which I seemed to see in sharp focus for the first time exactly what was happening to me. Then all hell broke loose. His tongue working up inside me, his hand gripping and rubbing my hard, swollen shaft - everything seemed to happen at once. My back arched up; I cried out and emptied myself in burst after burst. Alexander disengaged himself from my bum and watched me. When the feelings receded, and I lay spent and panting over the straw bale, he rubbed my back and arse with one hand, gently squeezing the last few tremors of sensation through my cock with the other.

  ‘Charlie,’ he whispered. I looked round.

  His brow was furrowed; he looked worried. ‘Are you... all right, boy?’

  I turned over; he never let go of my cock. I sat in front of him as he squatted at my feet, and smiled. I couldn’t find any words, but felt a great need to reassure him. He hung his head - at first in shame, I thought, until I realised that one hand had returned to the mighty bulge at the front of his trousers. His face was flushed, his lips swollen. He looked up at me. ‘Please, let me...’

  For answer, I knelt beside him, put an arm round his shoulder and eased him back until he was lying across my lap. I undid the tie at the top of his trousers and eased them down. His cock, now that he was lying back, extended as far as his belly button. Where mine was pale and thick, with a bright pink head when exposed, his was long and dark, lying on a bed of thick, soft black hair, the same as the fur on his stomach. I took it in my hand; it kicked appreciatively, and Alexander growled. ‘Now, Charlie, wank me off,’ he said, looking up into my eyes. I did as I was told. Slowly at first - my hand could barely encircle its girth - but then, as I got the feel of another man’s cock in my grasp, I increased the speed of my strokes. Before long Alexander’s narrow brown hips were bucking up and down as jets of white, sticky sperm splashed across his hard belly, matting the hair there, reaching as far as his neck and shoulders.

  We lay for a while in silence as I weighed the softening cock in my hand. Alexander lay with his eyes closed, breathing regularly, the sun shining down on us both. I could have stayed there all day.

  Suddenly we both leapt to our feet; a horn had sounded nearby. The mail coach was approaching. How long had we lain there? It must be nearly nine o’clock. I was due back at the house for breakfast, and Alexander was behindhand with his duties. Barely looking at each other, we struggled into our clothes; I brushed the now-dry mud from my breeches and ran out of the stable. I stopped, looked back, hoping to exchange one final smile with the groom, but he was bent over the saddle rack, furiously rearranging the bridles and bits that hung there in sorry neglect.

  I ran back across the field and reached the house just as the wheels of the mail coach crunched across the courtyard. I hurried up to my room, planning a quick change of clothes and then to breeze down to breakfast as if I had been studying quietly upstairs, should anyone comment on my absence. I stripped and stood for a moment naked in front of the mirror. My buttocks were still pink from Alexander’s ministrations, and there was a splash of dried sperm on my stomach. I picked at it idly, and my cock, although so recently drained, started stirring into life again. I felt the phantom of Alexander’s hot, insistent tongue at my arsehole. No, there was no time for this. I struggled into my clothes, hoping that my erection would subside by the time I got downstairs.

  When I descended into the hall with my excuses at the ready, I found that my absence had not even been noticed. My mother greeted me with a distracted frown and a dismissive gesture, and returned to reading the letter in front of her on the table. I enquired after her health, as was our morning custom, and she replied with an inarticulate ‘Oh...’. After repeated attempts to get marmalade, butter or cream passed to me, I served myself. I had never seen her like this: dark-browed, troubled, almost tearful. But, selfish and hungry youth as I was, I soon forgot my mother’s worries and concentrated on consuming a hearty breakfast, my appetite sharper than ever after the morning’s exercise.

  The rest of the day passed in an atmosphere of silence and melancholy. Mother closed herself away in her study; passing the window, I occasionally saw her pacing, praying and writing at her desk. Ethel shooed me out of the house, and I wandered around the grounds, enjoying the sunshine, dwelling, I’m afraid, more on my recent experiences with Alexander than on the troubles looming over the family. My lessons were suspended; the last of the Hanoverian trollops had been despatched to Edinburgh the previous week, and I was left to ‘independent study’ of my Latin and Greek texts. An eighteen-year-old boy, on a sunny day, his cock and arse still tingling from a thorough working-over by the groom, could not find it in his heart to return to the parsing of Menander. I roamed down by the lake, hoping to see Alexander exercising Starlight, as he sometimes did. I took a diversion from my afternoon run around the estate to drop in unexpectedly at the stables; there was no one there. I swam in the freezing waters of the loch, wishing it was Alexander’s tongue, rather than the icy waves, lapping at my naked arse. Finally, after such a day of exercise, I retired to bed a little after ten and went straight into a deep sleep.

  The last thing I heard was the sound of my mother’s voice raised in anger somewhere in the lower part of the house far, far beneath me.

  Chapter Two

  The next day was Sunday, and so riding, alongside other frivolous pastimes, was forbidden. The stables were out of bounds, and besides I knew that Alexander would spend the day with his family in religious observance, leaving the feeding of the horses to MacFarlane, an elderly local busybody who had helped out on the estate since before I was born. I sat in church, the stiff collar chafing against my neck, my mind a million miles from the sing-song responses and the priest’s uninspired homily. I greeted our neighbours, I shook hands with the fathers, bowed to the mothers and was agreeable to their daughters. In the carriage home my mother and I did not exchange a word, absorbed in our own meditations. My mother did not comment on my uncharacteristic silence. I imagine she welcomed it. Scowling out of the window, she fretted the fingers of one glove until they split at the seam. She tutted, suppressed a curse and shoved the offending article into her bag.

  On Monday morning I awoke before dawn after a disturbed night in which I could think only of Alexander and the hours that would pass before I could see him again. I had rehearsed in my mind every detail of our last time together, had summoned up memories of each sensation - his hands on my buttocks, his tongue on my arse, the pinching of my nipples and the firm grasp as he milked the juice out of me. And I saw again and again Alexander’s big, dark cock jumping and jerking in my hand. I suppose I should have felt shame or guilt - I’d been brought up strictly enough - but all I could feel was anticipation. I knew dimly that there was a great deal more that Alexander and I could do together. My cock was stiff all night. I woke up several times from dreams that, unchecked, would have ended with me spewing all over the sheets - an experience with which I was quite familiar. I resisted the temptation to take care of myself. I wanted to save it, to share it.

  The moment the sky lightened over the woods at the east end of the estate, I was out of bed. I poured a little cold water from the jug and washed myself quickly, splashing face and neck to wake myself up. Not that I needed much rousing: my heart was beating so hard that I could barely keep still. I crept down the stairs to avoid waking the household, out of the double doors at the end of the great hall and into the grey morning. Where Saturday had been glorious and blue, Monday dawned dark and damp, the ‘dreck’ hanging thick over the loch, the kind of fog that wouldn’t clear all day. I felt a chill in my bones, and ran across the fields to warm myself. Now that the moment was drawing near, I had misgivings. Would Alexander be there? Was t
his all wrong, dangerous even? I stopped short for a moment, thought of turning back. But where my mind misgave me, my loins forced me onwards. I felt again the heat, the squirming of his tongue inside me, and I picked up my pace.

  When I reached the stables, Alexander was there as usual, measuring out the feed. He grunted a short greeting, turned his back and carried on working. The wind went out of my sails; I’d assumed that within seconds of meeting we’d be tearing each other’s clothes off.

  ‘How are you today, Alexander? I asked, trying to catch his eye and smile.

  ‘Ah, well,’ he muttered, picking up a shovel and getting to work on the weekend’s dirty straw.

  ‘Did you have a pleasant Sunday?’ This was ridiculous: I was trying to make small talk with a man who, only two days ago, had come in my hand.

  ‘I’m busy, master,’ he replied, turning to frown at me. I could think of nothing to say in reply. He carried on with his shovelling. I leaned against the saddle rack and watched his broad shoulders, the muscles of his neck and sides working inside his coarse linen shirt. Each time he bent over to take up a spadeful, I examined the curve of his arse. Each time he stood up to fling the dirt into the barrow, I caught the shape of his cock and balls outlined against the wool of his trousers. If he refused to catch my eye, he could surely feel my gaze burning into him. Within five minutes, I was stiff inside my breeches, a fact which the fine suede of the garment did little to conceal. A small dark patch appeared where the tip of my cock, impatient for release, was dribbling.

  Still Alexander worked, ignoring my presence, scowling at the floor. Another five minutes passed; impatience made me bold.

  ‘Look at me, Alexander,’ I said, thrusting my hips forward.

  He leaned for a moment on his shovel, wiped away the sweat from his brow and looked me up and down. I saw his eyes widen just for a second when he saw the obscene outline in my breeches, before his face stiffened once more into a mask.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you want...’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t call me sir.’

  ‘No, sir. Is that all, sir?’ Frowning again, he returned to his work. His buttocks rippled as he bent, his cock strained as he stood, and yet he would not relent. What prevented him? What had happened between Saturday and Monday to change him from lust-crazed hound to sullen, scowling servant? Ah, of course - Sunday. The low chapel at which many of the local estate workers worshipped was notorious for the extreme hell-fire severity of its sermons. Where we were gently admonished to support the king and give more money to the church, Alexander and his like were shown the pit of hell, and returned to their cottages with the whiff of sulphur in their nostrils, determined to renounce sin henceforth. It was one of my mother’s standing jokes that, if you wanted a job done properly, you should get it started on Monday. By Wednesday, she said, the men were backsliding into drink and sloth; by Friday they were largely absent. Alexander was always the shining exception to this rule, a man of ‘singular energy’, as she said.

  I should have respected his wishes now that I had divined them. I should have knuckled down, helped him with his work and removed from his reach the occasion of sin. I knew that perfectly well. But instead I thought only of my own pleasure. The state of Alexander’s immortal soul interested me a good deal less than the very mortal flesh beneath his garments. In pursuit of my appetites, I behaved like one of the sluts that my mother was always warning me about.

  I moved round to the other side of the stable, to stand in Alexander’s line of vision, and pressed the heel of my palm against the base of my cock, making the head push even more blatantly against the fabric of my breeches. He saw it, I know; he looked up, his eyes widened, he turned his back on me. Undeterred, I moved around to face him again, then, when I knew he could see me, turned and wiggled my arse in his face. The breeches fit me like a second skin, and I wore no underwear; I looked naked. He coughed, turned and worked on.

  By now the thrill of the chase was inflaming my blood, and I was more than ever determined to capture the game. Circling Alexander, I got him with his back to the corner of the stable and started to move in. He could not turn without sticking his head straight into the wooden wall; he had to face me. The distance between us closed. Still he stared at the ground, but now he was at bay, the shovel hanging useless in his hand, his breathing hard. I could see quite clearly that his lower self wanted me as badly as I wanted him.

  ‘Alexander...’ I whispered, and he looked up. As soon as I had his attention, I caught up the tails of my shirt and whipped it over my head. I licked my lips and pinched both my nipples. Alexander coughed and blinked, but he did not look away. I turned my back on him and lowered my breeches slowly over my arse, pulling the white cheeks apart to expose the soft, pink hole that he’d been inside so recently. I could hear him breathing hard, almost groaning.

  I turned to face him again, and rolled the breeches down over my hard, thick cock. Lingering for a moment with the head still caught inside the fabric, I traced a finger down the thick, blueish vein that ran its length. Then I inched my breeches down and my cock, free at last, sprang up against my curved belly. Alexander, who seemed to hold his breath throughout the foregoing, let out a great sigh. Then there was silence. My cock stood rigid between us, pulsing a little with each beat of my heart, the skin pulled back just halfway over the head, the ridge of the helmet clearly visible through its smooth covering. Alexander was sweating.

  I stepped forward. I could smell him. I could feel the heat belting off his body. I reached down and took his hand; it hung, heavy and limp, in my grasp. I moved it on to my cock, tightened his fingers round my stiffness, and let it go. It stayed there, at first motionless, then responding to my throbbing with a tentative squeeze, then another, firmer. We looked at each other for two seconds, five, ten. Then Alexander’s countenance lifted, the furrows disappeared from his brow and he smiled.

  ‘Oh Charlie...’ he breathed, and passing a hand round the back of my head, drew me to him in a long kiss. His tongue, that dart of fire, parted my lips and slipped into my mouth as he gently rubbed my shaft and smeared the sticky fluid across the head.

  I learned a good deal from Alexander that morning. After we’d kissed, he jumped across the stable and barred the door from the inside, bounded up the ladder in two leaps and locked the hayloft doors, and let down a rude sacking curtain across the window high in the wall. In the gloomy light, and the rising heat from the penned animals and our own bodies, we turned to face each other again. ‘I want no interruptions,’ he said.

  Standing two yards away from me, Alexander stripped quickly, stepped out of his trousers and stretched his arms above his head. He smiled; his white, strong teeth flashed in the stable’s gloom. ‘It can’t be wrong, can it?’ he said, running one hand down his hard olive chest and scratching his pubic hair. ‘It can’t be wrong if we both want to do it.’

  ‘Of course it’s not wrong,’ I said. ‘Why did you think it was?’

  ‘Because I thought I’d taken advantage of you. Because I’m older than you. Because I’m just the groom and you -’ his cock jumped as he said this ‘—are the master.’

  In answer to all of these points, to show my equal willingness and to remove any worries about our respective rank, I dropped to my knees and took his erection in my hand, holding it a few inches away from my face. At last, I had what I wanted. I played with it for a while, feeling its thickness, its heat, making the skin slide back and forth across his dark knob, watching his balls heaving inside him. Alexander stroked the back of my head, pulling me forward.

  ‘Come on, Charlie, get your mouth on it.’

  I gingerly kissed the tip, tasted the saltiness. He pulled my head in, down. ‘Get your lips round it.’ I opened my mouth into a little ‘o’ and encircled the head, running my tongue along the damp slit. Alexander grunted and pulled harder on my head, at the same time thrusting forwards with his hips. Another inch of him slipped into my mouth, and anoth
er. I looked up at him; my eyes were watering. His head was thrown back, his hands on his hips, his groin thrust forward. I took another inch; I wanted all of him inside me. But the contact of his cockhead with the back of my throat had an unexpected effect; I gagged and choked, my mouth filled with saliva. Immediately he pulled out.

  ‘Charlie, are you all right?’ I nodded, caught my breath, spat into the straw. ‘Just take it easy. There’s no need to rush. We’re not going to be interrupted. Will you try again?’

  Would I? I felt that I would never be content without Alexander’s cock inside me. I spat into my hand, slicked up every side of his long, hard shaft before opening my mouth wider than before. This time his wet shaft slipped easier between my lips, and when I felt the familiar response as it hit my throat I stopped, breathed deeply through my nose and pulled back a little.

  ‘That’s it, Charlie.’

  I went down again, back again. Alexander’s cock seemed, if possible, to be growing in my mouth. After a dozen such intrusions my jaw was aching, my lips were stretched - and I could not bear to release him. I saw him looking down at me as the brown shaft disappeared between my pink lips; he caressed my neck, played with my ears, talking to me in the same soft, soothing undertone that he used with the horses.

  ‘That’s the way, my boy, a little bit faster now, hold on...’ His hips were thrusting forward to meet my face with every downward stroke; his balls slapped against my chin. For balance I held on to his rock-hard buttocks, feeling them smooth and warm in my hands. My fingers crept into the crack, delving through soft black hair to find the tight nub of his hole. A louder grunt than usual told me that this was not unwelcome. As Alexander pulled back from my mouth, he seemed to be pushing against my fingers. Very slightly I increased the pressure on each thrust, remembering how good his tongue had felt inside me. As the pace quickened, his hole softened and opened to my finger and I was inside him to the first knuckle.