The Secret Tunnel Read Online Free PDF Page A

ask if they were all as fuckable as he was, but the thought alone was increasing the bulge in my pants.
    “I am sent to Scotland as an agent for my father’s business of export-import, as it is I who have the better English from the others.” That was debatable, I thought, but kept it to myself.
    “And for many months now, no money is coming from Belgium to me, and now I am… I do not know how to say. Fauché comme les blés .”
    “Flat broke.”
    “Flat broken,” he essayed. “Yes. My pockets are empty.”
    I put one hand into my pants pocket and plumped up my basket. He noticed the gesture; he could hardly fail to.
    “Now I hear from my uncle that father is died, and I must come to London to hear read the will.”
    “In the hope that there is some money for you?”
    “ Bien sûr . And to discover what is my future.”
    “I see.” It was a sad enough tale, and I suspected that there was much more that he was not telling me. I had already painted his father as a cruel, coldhearted tyrant, his mother as a warm, passionate woman broken down by years of domestic bullying—poor Bertrand caught between the two, despised by a father who, perhaps, recognized that his youngest son would never carry on the family name…

    “And you, sir?”
    “Me?”
    “For what do you go to London?”
    “Ah. To see an old friend.”
    “Old?”
    “I mean, he’s young, but I have known him for a long time.”
    He was glancing down between my legs more frequently. “And he is your particular friend?”
    “No.” I thought the time had come for frankness. “I left my particular friend at home in Edinburgh.”
    “Ah.”
    “And you have his ticket.”
    “I see.”
    “And, perhaps, you can take his place in other ways.”
    “As I said, sir, I am very grateful to you.”
    “How grateful?”
    Checking the window—the blinds were still down—he knelt between my legs and looked up at me.
    “I see. You really are very grateful, aren’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Have you ever sucked a man’s cock before, Bertrand?”
    “I…” He blushed and cast his eyes down. I took him by the chin and made him look at me.
    “Have you ever wrapped those pretty lips around a hard dick?” With my thumb I rubbed his mouth; he sucked on it, running his tongue in little circles around the sensitive pad. If he could do this to my thumb, then my cock was in for a first-class service. I gave him my index finger and then my middle finger, delighting in the way his mouth stretched to accommodate them. I could feel all around the inside of his face—his white teeth, his soft tongue and hard gums, the yielding lining of his cheeks. Grabbing hold of his lower teeth, I pulled him down into my crotch. He made no resistance, and was soon rubbing his face
against the hardness that he encountered there.
    “You’re going to be a very good traveling companion, aren’t you?”
    He mumbled something incomprehensible, possibly in French, and started burying his nose in my pants.
    This was going too far, too fast, I suddenly realized, as a breeze from the carriage window made the blinds billow, rendering us all too visible. Horny as I was, I was not suicidally stupid, and I knew all too well the penalties that attended the kind of activity we were about to engage in. Fortunately for us, there was no one around at that time, otherwise we might both have been met at Kings Cross by the police.
    “We’ll have to wait,” I said, removing my fingers from Bertrand’s warm, wet mouth. I wiped them on my handkerchief.
    He got up, brushed down his pants—which were already worn at the knee, perhaps from similar attempts—and sat opposite me again, this time with a big smile on his face.
    “When I see you, I hoped that you were like me. Another who loves men.”
    “Oh yes, Bertrand. I love men.” And I’ve loved plenty, I felt like adding, but I did not wish to ruin what, to him, was a special moment.
    “All my life I have waited for such a friend.”
    I