The Low Road by James Lear Page A

mess inside his black gown.
    I was getting nicely into my stride, bucking my hips up and down, imagining Lebecque’s face contorted with lust, wondering what was going on underneath his clothes, when a groan and a sudden shuffling movement made me turn round, as if to ‘discover’ and denounce my voyeur. But instead of Lebecque standing there I came eye to eye with none other than MacFarlane, staggering towards me holding his trousers up with one hand and gripping a big stiff erection with the other. I leapt to my feet in horror; MacFarlane, losing grip of his trousers, fell face first at my feet, his hairy backside wriggling as he tried to right himself. The initial shock wore off, and the absurdity of the situation took hold of me.
    â€˜Dear oh dear, MacFarlane, it seems that you make quite a habit
of spying on me. What is it that you want?’
    The old man groaned again and looked up at me, his face a burlesque of tragedy. ‘Please, Master Charles, don’t be angry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t know you were here. I couldn’t help what I saw.’
    â€˜You’re a dirty wee bastard, aren’t you, MacFarlane? Watching people’s private moments.’ I was standing right over him now. Despite the fact that I found him generally repulsive, my cock had not softened one iota. Its shadow stretched far out from my hips. I suppose I was enjoying my power over him - but, if I must be honest, I was also enjoying the opportunity to show myself off to another man - any man, however unattractive. It was a long time since my body had been appreciated. MacFarlane was an audience, if nothing else.
    â€˜Well, old man, take a good look.’
    He peered up again, uncertain of what to do.
    â€˜Go on, I said look at me. I’m not going to hit you.’
    â€˜Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
    He struggled into a kneeling position; in the sand where he had fallen there was a perfect impression of his cock and balls. The white sand clung still to him, as it did to my arse and back.
    â€˜Tell me, MacFarlane, what you were doing?’
    â€˜Watching you, sir.’
    â€˜Watching me what?’
    â€˜Watching you... playing with yourself, sir.’
    He cleared his throat and licked his lips. Now that he knew there was no present danger, he relaxed a little. His cock, which had shrivelled before, lengthened and stiffened with an energy I found surprising in a man of his years. Years of outdoor work punctuated by too many hours at the bar had done their worst to his complexion, and he was certainly no beauty, but he was no monster either. His body, from what I could see, was sturdy enough. Not that it mattered; he could have been fat and scaly and covered in sores and I, blinded as I was by lust, would have
persuaded myself to find him attractive.
    â€˜Do you like what you see, MacFarlane?’
    â€˜Oh yes, sir, very much.’
    â€˜Do you want to... touch it?’
    He couldn’t find words to reply, but instead shuffled forward on his knees and reached out a hand. Allowing him just to brush the tip (which left a sticky pearl on his fingers) I stepped back again.
    â€˜Not so quickly, MacFarlane. First of all I want you to tell me something.’ I was devious.
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜You must tell me the truth, you know, or...’ I made my cock twitch.
    â€˜Yes, the truth, sir, anything.’
    â€˜Tell me, MacFarlane, what you saw in my room that morning.’
    He gasped and bit his lip, hung his head in shame for a moment. Had I overplayed my hand? I thought not; his dick was harder than ever, like a steel rod against his belly.
    â€˜Look at me, MacFarlane. Look at me!’ I spat on my fingers and rubbed them over the head of my cock, then put them back into my mouth, savouring the taste. ‘You want to taste that, don’t you? Want my hard young cock in your mouth?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Then tell me.’
    â€˜Do you promise, sir,