really didn’t need the complication of this young Belgian falling in love with me. I was more than happy to fuck his brains out, to watch that handsome, trusting face skewered on my dick, but I did not want to break his heart.
“You must know,” I said, laying a hand on his knee, “that I am not free.”
“Ah, for that,” he said, with that typical Continental puff of dismissal, “I know I can not hope. But for the present, I hope we can be… intime .”
“Yes, Bertrand, I hope very much to be intime with you.”
I lowered my voice. “If there was a sleeper car on this train, I’d take you there right now.”
“And what would you do there, sir?”
“I would fuck you.”
“Yes,” he said, shifting in his seat as if he could already feel my dick up his ass, “you would.”
“And I hope, somehow, that I will.” I was mentally calculating the chances of fucking Bertrand, and Arthur the porter, and perhaps that mean son of a bitch of a conductor, in the course of a one-way journey to London. I guessed that I could make it. My powers of recovery were still prodigious, and I was more than capable of getting hard and coming three times in 24 hours. Well, four, of course, if I counted Vince, whom I remembered with a guilty pang. Four times. Yes, I’d done it before. I could doubtless do it again. And there was something about a train trip, and the chance encounters that it threw in one’s way, that made me feel like I could do more if necessary. And then, of course, there was Boy Morgan to attend to in London… Could I manage five?
Bertrand was staring raptly at me. “ Avant Londres …” His mouth hung a little open, as he contemplated what was in store for him.
“Yes. There’s a long way to go, yet.”
Little did I know how long.
When we were both sitting decently, I raised the blinds; no point in arousing suspicion so early in the trip.
“You can start off by telling me exactly what happened in the toilet. What was that man doing to you?”
Bertrand rubbed his chin. “ ’E ’it me.”
“I guessed that. Anything else?”
“I am ashamed.”
“You mean there were things of a different nature?”
“Yes. He is un monstre .”
“I have no doubt,” I said, thinking of the conductor’s high-handed treatment of me and the porter even before we
left Waverley. Well, if I was looking for an adventure, there was a ready-made villain. A sadist in uniform, taking advantage of young, defenseless men, to whose rescue I seemed destined to come… Already I was hard again at the thought of my own nobility.
“When he come into the third-class carriage checking tickets, I run up here, and he follow me,” Bertrand said. “I hide in the toilette , I lock the door, but he ’ave a special key. The door open, and he come in and find me.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was pretending to have a shit, of course.” The vulgarity sounded almost elegant in his accent. “I sit with my pants at my… What are these? Mes chevilles ?”
“Your ankles.” The things you’ll be resting on my shoulders when I fuck you, I thought.
“ Bon , my ahnkles.”
“So he found you there, bare-assed, without a ticket.”
“And he take advantage of me.”
“I can’t blame him.”
“If it ’ad been you, sir, I would not ’ave minded.”
“Please, don’t call me sir. My name is Mitch.”
“Ah, thank you. Meetch.” He tried the name a couple of times, and seemed satisfied. “But from ’im, yeuch, dégueulasse …”
“He’s not so bad-looking,” I said, and it was true: the conductor was tall and well made, with a strong jawline and heavy, masculine features.
“ Non , not so bad,” said Bertrand, “but he is cruel. He call me names, he call my mother names, he insult my country—not even my country, but France, even though I try to explain—”
“There’s no point in trying to explain geography to that type.”
“ D’accord . Then he become violent, he push me back so I am
“You must know,” I said, laying a hand on his knee, “that I am not free.”
“Ah, for that,” he said, with that typical Continental puff of dismissal, “I know I can not hope. But for the present, I hope we can be… intime .”
“Yes, Bertrand, I hope very much to be intime with you.”
I lowered my voice. “If there was a sleeper car on this train, I’d take you there right now.”
“And what would you do there, sir?”
“I would fuck you.”
“Yes,” he said, shifting in his seat as if he could already feel my dick up his ass, “you would.”
“And I hope, somehow, that I will.” I was mentally calculating the chances of fucking Bertrand, and Arthur the porter, and perhaps that mean son of a bitch of a conductor, in the course of a one-way journey to London. I guessed that I could make it. My powers of recovery were still prodigious, and I was more than capable of getting hard and coming three times in 24 hours. Well, four, of course, if I counted Vince, whom I remembered with a guilty pang. Four times. Yes, I’d done it before. I could doubtless do it again. And there was something about a train trip, and the chance encounters that it threw in one’s way, that made me feel like I could do more if necessary. And then, of course, there was Boy Morgan to attend to in London… Could I manage five?
Bertrand was staring raptly at me. “ Avant Londres …” His mouth hung a little open, as he contemplated what was in store for him.
“Yes. There’s a long way to go, yet.”
Little did I know how long.
When we were both sitting decently, I raised the blinds; no point in arousing suspicion so early in the trip.
“You can start off by telling me exactly what happened in the toilet. What was that man doing to you?”
Bertrand rubbed his chin. “ ’E ’it me.”
“I guessed that. Anything else?”
“I am ashamed.”
“You mean there were things of a different nature?”
“Yes. He is un monstre .”
“I have no doubt,” I said, thinking of the conductor’s high-handed treatment of me and the porter even before we
left Waverley. Well, if I was looking for an adventure, there was a ready-made villain. A sadist in uniform, taking advantage of young, defenseless men, to whose rescue I seemed destined to come… Already I was hard again at the thought of my own nobility.
“When he come into the third-class carriage checking tickets, I run up here, and he follow me,” Bertrand said. “I hide in the toilette , I lock the door, but he ’ave a special key. The door open, and he come in and find me.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was pretending to have a shit, of course.” The vulgarity sounded almost elegant in his accent. “I sit with my pants at my… What are these? Mes chevilles ?”
“Your ankles.” The things you’ll be resting on my shoulders when I fuck you, I thought.
“ Bon , my ahnkles.”
“So he found you there, bare-assed, without a ticket.”
“And he take advantage of me.”
“I can’t blame him.”
“If it ’ad been you, sir, I would not ’ave minded.”
“Please, don’t call me sir. My name is Mitch.”
“Ah, thank you. Meetch.” He tried the name a couple of times, and seemed satisfied. “But from ’im, yeuch, dégueulasse …”
“He’s not so bad-looking,” I said, and it was true: the conductor was tall and well made, with a strong jawline and heavy, masculine features.
“ Non , not so bad,” said Bertrand, “but he is cruel. He call me names, he call my mother names, he insult my country—not even my country, but France, even though I try to explain—”
“There’s no point in trying to explain geography to that type.”
“ D’accord . Then he become violent, he push me back so I am
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