“I like a tight little arse,” said Dickinson. “He’s hot inside, Mitch. He’s going to be a good fuck.”
“I know it.”
He continued fingering Bertrand, now introducing his index finger as well.
“Shall we make him come?” said Dickinson, with a leer.
“Do it.”
I heard the squeal of the brakes and the hiss of the steam, voices and whistles from outside. Doors slammed, and there were footsteps in the corridor.
“Alas, gentlemen.” Dickinson retrieved his fingers, leaving Bertrand’s ass gaping at fresh air, “that will have to wait.” He opened the door and stuck his head out. Bertrand struggled to pull his pants up. “Duty calls. I’m sure you will find some way to pass the time.” He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him. Bertrand buttoned himself up; the poor boy looked physically ill.
“I was on the edge,” he said. “One more push and I think I would have… Sploof!”
“Well, don’t you dare sploof inside your pants. When you do it, I want to see it. And taste it.”
“Oh, you…” he tutted, but from his shy little smile I could tell that he was relishing the prospect of coming for me.
The train had stopped completely. We lifted the blinds and saw the hustle and bustle of York station.
IV
THIS WAS NOT ACCORDING TO SCHEDULE. THE FLYING Scotsman’s nonstop service from Edinburgh to London had only recently been introduced, amid much ballyhoo, and was regarded as one of the wonders of the transportation world. Stopping at York—which the train had always done before—was a disappointment for all the passengers, not least for Bertrand, who was ready to take at least one hot, hard length up his tight hairy asshole.
The dowager passed by our window, looking like a disgusted camel.
“Really,” we heard her say, “one sincerely hopes that they will offer a refund of some sort. See to it, Chivers.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The little companion, walking a pace behind her mistress, shot her a look of such sharp loathing I almost expected to see the glitter of a blade burying itself in the dowager’s fox-fur wrap.
They were not the only ones to step down from the train, despite the best efforts of the conductor and the station staff to keep them contained. A little man in a uniform was
running up and down the platform with a bullhorn. “Ladies and gentlemen, please stay on board the train—We will be departing shortly—Please, ladies and—Please—We shall—”
He was jostled by a press of people spilling from the carriages, all eager to stretch their legs and get a good look at each other. Our conductor, the one from whom I had rescued poor Bertrand, passed by the window with a grim expression on his face. He glanced in, saw us pressed against the glass, and turned away in disgust.
“ Cochon de merde ,” muttered Bertrand.
“Come on, let’s get some fresh air.” I was, in truth, more interested in mixing with a group of kilted soldiers who had piled out of the third-class carriage at the end of the train.
“Fresh air! This obsession with fresh air!” Bertrand said, putting on his shabby overcoat.
“You couldn’t wait to get your clothes off just now.”
“Ah, but there was something to warm me,” he said. “Now I am cold.”
We stepped down onto the platform; there was still frost in the shadows, and our shoes crunched on the gravelly surface. I strolled toward the soldiers, four sturdy lads stamping their boots and blowing into their cupped hands. I knew very well that Scottish soldiers were a friendly bunch—some of our overnight guests had proved just how friendly they could be—so I was looking forward to a little flirtatious banter with these tall, thickset creatures with their long wool socks and bare, hairy knees.
Bertrand trotted after me, and as we passed them one of the soldiers made a protracted kissing sound, followed by low male laughter.
I stopped and turned. “Good morning, gentlemen.” Bertrand walked on.
“Morning, sir.”
“I know it.”
He continued fingering Bertrand, now introducing his index finger as well.
“Shall we make him come?” said Dickinson, with a leer.
“Do it.”
I heard the squeal of the brakes and the hiss of the steam, voices and whistles from outside. Doors slammed, and there were footsteps in the corridor.
“Alas, gentlemen.” Dickinson retrieved his fingers, leaving Bertrand’s ass gaping at fresh air, “that will have to wait.” He opened the door and stuck his head out. Bertrand struggled to pull his pants up. “Duty calls. I’m sure you will find some way to pass the time.” He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him. Bertrand buttoned himself up; the poor boy looked physically ill.
“I was on the edge,” he said. “One more push and I think I would have… Sploof!”
“Well, don’t you dare sploof inside your pants. When you do it, I want to see it. And taste it.”
“Oh, you…” he tutted, but from his shy little smile I could tell that he was relishing the prospect of coming for me.
The train had stopped completely. We lifted the blinds and saw the hustle and bustle of York station.
IV
THIS WAS NOT ACCORDING TO SCHEDULE. THE FLYING Scotsman’s nonstop service from Edinburgh to London had only recently been introduced, amid much ballyhoo, and was regarded as one of the wonders of the transportation world. Stopping at York—which the train had always done before—was a disappointment for all the passengers, not least for Bertrand, who was ready to take at least one hot, hard length up his tight hairy asshole.
The dowager passed by our window, looking like a disgusted camel.
“Really,” we heard her say, “one sincerely hopes that they will offer a refund of some sort. See to it, Chivers.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The little companion, walking a pace behind her mistress, shot her a look of such sharp loathing I almost expected to see the glitter of a blade burying itself in the dowager’s fox-fur wrap.
They were not the only ones to step down from the train, despite the best efforts of the conductor and the station staff to keep them contained. A little man in a uniform was
running up and down the platform with a bullhorn. “Ladies and gentlemen, please stay on board the train—We will be departing shortly—Please, ladies and—Please—We shall—”
He was jostled by a press of people spilling from the carriages, all eager to stretch their legs and get a good look at each other. Our conductor, the one from whom I had rescued poor Bertrand, passed by the window with a grim expression on his face. He glanced in, saw us pressed against the glass, and turned away in disgust.
“ Cochon de merde ,” muttered Bertrand.
“Come on, let’s get some fresh air.” I was, in truth, more interested in mixing with a group of kilted soldiers who had piled out of the third-class carriage at the end of the train.
“Fresh air! This obsession with fresh air!” Bertrand said, putting on his shabby overcoat.
“You couldn’t wait to get your clothes off just now.”
“Ah, but there was something to warm me,” he said. “Now I am cold.”
We stepped down onto the platform; there was still frost in the shadows, and our shoes crunched on the gravelly surface. I strolled toward the soldiers, four sturdy lads stamping their boots and blowing into their cupped hands. I knew very well that Scottish soldiers were a friendly bunch—some of our overnight guests had proved just how friendly they could be—so I was looking forward to a little flirtatious banter with these tall, thickset creatures with their long wool socks and bare, hairy knees.
Bertrand trotted after me, and as we passed them one of the soldiers made a protracted kissing sound, followed by low male laughter.
I stopped and turned. “Good morning, gentlemen.” Bertrand walked on.
“Morning, sir.”
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