The Secret Tunnel by James Lear Page A

only in his mouth; it wouldn’t take long, and would serve as an amusing
hors d’oeuvre to lunch. But just as we were getting amorous in our carriage, with the blinds pulled down and our tongues in each other’s mouths, there was a tap at the door.
    Damn these railway personnel! I disengaged my mouth and shouted, “Go away!”
    “It’s me, Mr. Mitchell. Peter Dickinson.”
    Bertrand scowled and shook his head, but I was eager to admit him to the party. I adjusted my clothes, but didn’t take too much trouble to hide the bulge in my pants.
    “Come in, Peter.”
    He shut the door behind him and leaned his back against it. This would prevent any unwanted entry; why hadn’t I thought of that? Bertrand could have been sucking me without fear of discovery.
    “Gentlemen. I just wanted to thank you for your cooperation earlier.” He was sizing us both up—our flushed faces, our bulging crotches. “I hope I am not interrupting.”
    “Nothing that you’re not welcome to join in. Wouldn’t you say, Bertrand?”
    “If he wants.” I think Bertrand was secretly excited at the idea of having two men, as I had earlier suggested. He was determined not to be friendly to Dickinson, but he would welcome his cock, I suspected.
    “That’s very good of you, Mr. Mitchell.” He rubbed his groin.
    “Mitch.”
    “Mitch. Come here, Mitch.”
    I stood in front of him. The train lurched a little, and our bodies were pressed together, hard cock to hard cock. I felt his chest, his stomach; they were firm and warm.
    “What do you want to do, Mitch? You want me to fuck you? Or shall we both fuck your little friend?”
    “Whatever you like.”
    “ Venez, monsieur ,” he said to Bertrand. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

    Bertrand stood up.
    “Turn around.” There was mastery in his voice; he was obviously used to being obeyed.
    “Now, show us your arsehole.”
    “ Quoi? ”
    “ Ton cul. Ton trou .”
    “Ah!”
    Bertrand unbuttoned his pants, lifted his shirt, and exposed a round, downy backside for our inspection.
    “Very nice indeed,” said Dickinson. “What do you think, Mitch?”
    “A fine piece of ass.”
    “You said it. Now, Bertrand, how about sitting down on that seat and getting your legs in the air for me?”
    Bertrand did as he was told—it was a bit of a struggle, as he was still encumbered by pants and underpants, which were bunched up over his shoes and socks. He put his hands behind his knees and pulled his legs up. His thighs were delightfully hairy.
    “Now, Mitch, mind that door.”
    I leaned against the door, one hand rubbing my crotch. Bertrand was ready: his cock was hard, lying on a thick bed of soft dark fuzz.
    “I could fuck him right here and now,” said Dickinson, running his hand up and down the lengthening stiffness in his pants.
    “Well? What are you waiting for?”
    “In case you haven’t noticed, gentlemen, we are slowing down.”
    I had noticed nothing of the sort. All I could think of was Dickinson’s cock, Bertrand’s ass, and my cock and ass in any of several delightful combinations.
    “ Merde! ” said Bertrand, struggling to get up. “We are stopping. Qu’est ce qui se passe? ”
    “We have a few minutes.” Dickinson spat into his hand,
slicked up his fingers and pushed them against Bertrand’s asshole.
    “We are not… Mmmf!… Scheduled to stop… Aaah!” Dickinson’s finger was inside him, fucking him, wetting the black hair around the tight pink hole.
    “There has been a slight change of schedule, I believe,” said Dickinson, cupping my groin, squeezing my dick. “A minor engineering problem. I am assured we will not be long.”
    The train was slowing more.
    Bertrand was uneasy. “But, monsieur, if someone were to come in… Oh! Ça! ” Dickinson fingered him more vigorously. I noticed a drip of precum at the tip of Bertrand’s cock.
    “You can see how much he likes it.”
    “And now?” Dickinson moved his finger in further, and Bertrand closed his eyes.