A Sticky End (18 page)

“Get his boots off, boy,” I said. “I want him naked.”

“Right.”

“And then you.”

“Yes.”

“And then,” I said, grabbing Bert's ears and pulling him down on my cock, “you.” He didn't, in fact he couldn't, say much in reply, but sort of nodded.

“And then I'm going to fuck all three of you.”

“Yes,” they chorused as one. Bert even stopped sucking me for long enough to speak. And only long enough.

Stan was making good progress with Durran's bootlaces, and it excited me to see the little blond cop kneeling before an arrogant thug like Durran, digging himself deeper and deeper into trouble, and all because he trusted me. I am not, generally speaking, the sort of man who abuses the trust
of others, and I had no intention of landing Stan Knight in trouble with his superiors—provided he played the game in the morning. If he started to have second thoughts, a hint in that direction should be enough to set him back on track. One of Durran's boots was off now, revealing a thick woolen sock, and Stan got to work on the other. I couldn't resist poking him in the ass with my foot and toppling him over, which gave me a clear view of the firm, meaty buttocks I intended very soon to pry apart.

Bert was in a world of his own, sucking away like a baby on a pacifier, and even though I'd come so often in the last 24 hours, I didn't want to shoot down his throat when there was so much ass to be fucked, so I pushed him off and told him to strip as well. He was quick about it, revealing a huge, solid body, thighs as thick as Stan's waist, and the ludicrously big cock that I'd already heard about from Morgan. I shed my own clothes as quickly as I could; the floor of the room was starting to look like the aftermath of a yard sale. Stan had succeeded in getting every stitch off Durran, and all that remained was for the three of us to gang up on the little blond cop. Bert grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms, while Durran and I tore his clothes from his tight body. He wriggled and struggled, but as soon as his pants were down Bert's great log of a cock made contact with his ass, and that seemed to calm him, whether through excitement or fear I'm not sure. Soon he was naked, his arms still held, his cock sticking straight out from its bed of blond fuzz.

The most accurate description I can give of what happened over the next three hours in the squalid room above a deserted public house in Tooting Broadway is not verbal but mathematical:

0.333 recurring.

That is to say: one into three will go. Repeatedly, in different ways, but you get the picture.

My cock has never been so much in demand. Durran, as
I had been led to believe, was a very accomplished fuck, doing most of the work himself, squeezing and loosening his anal muscles, sucking me in and pushing me out; all I had to do was stay hard, and leave the rest to him. Stan, on the other hand, was delightfully fresh to the sport, his eyes widening as I entered him. I made sure he was on his back when I did so; I wanted to read every sensation in his face—he was surprised by the pain, even more surprised by the pleasure that followed in its wake, ricocheting between the two sensations as I drove into him. And then there was Bert, the sort of man who looked as if he'd rather kill you with one swipe of his mighty fist than allow you anywhere near his puckered fuckhole. Bert was the greediest of all, backing into me, throwing himself onto his back, and, on one rather alarming occasion, straddling me and lowering his full weight onto my cock. Fortunately for me, he had good, strong thigh muscles, and supported himself for the rest of the ride, otherwise there was a very real danger that he might have snapped me off at the base. I don't think he would have minded, as long as I stayed inside him.

Without wishing to brag, I made all three of them come while fucking them. Stan remained on his back, and came over his tight, ridged stomach, the spunk forming a pretty fan pattern over his muscles.

Durran came while straddling me, performing an extraordinary corkscrew motion, holding his cock like a garden hose and aiming it toward my face, which he hit.

Bert came while he was on his knees on the floor, his face buried in the mattress, for which I was grateful: even though the pub was empty, his unstifled bellows would have been heard several streets away. Throughout the fuck, he'd kept his prick pushed back between his thighs, so I could see how hard he was, I suppose; when he started shooting, his spunk hit the dusty floorboards, where it sat for a moment like a handful of large baroque pearls before being soaked
into the wood. I imagine much had preceded it.

They were all ready for Round Two, but it was the most I could do to produce one decent orgasm after the exertions of the day. I lay back on the bed, jerking myself off while Stan—who was a quick study—sucked and licked my balls. Durran and Bert stood at either side of my head like guardian angels, watching and jacking off, and when they judged that I was ready, they increased their rate so that both of them shot into my open mouth as I came over my hairy stomach. That left only Stan with a hard-on. He lay beside me on the bed while Bert licked his ass, Durran sucked his cock, and I put my arms around him and kissed him.

And then, as dawn broke, we slept, Stan and I in one bed, Bert and Durran in the other. I felt sorry for Durran, sharing that narrow mattress with such a huge man; at least my companion was built on more compact lines. But somehow we won a few hours' respite from the hurly-burly of sleuthing and fucking, and when I opened my eyes and looked at my watch is was seven o'clock on Monday morning. Stan lay warm and peaceful in my arms, his blond hair sticking up on top of his head. Bert lay on his back, one arm flung across his eyes, the other hanging down to the floor, like a resting giant.

Durran had gone.

“He has to work,” said Bert. “Starts at six. Building trade, you know. Job over in west London today. He'll have walked it, to save a few pennies.”

“I didn't hear him leave.”

“He's light on his feet, is Sean Durran. Comes and goes as he pleases. Comes—and goes.” Bert climbed out of bed and stepped into his trousers, chuckling at his own pleasantry, but I had a twinge of misgiving. And then Stan woke up and put my hand on his morning hard-on, and my mind turned to other matters.

I DON'T OFTEN REGRET THINGS I'VE DONE—IF I REGRET anything, it's what I haven't done. So when I left that dingy south London pub and said farewell to my companions of the night, I experienced a slight pang over the fact that I hadn't yet managed to get Bert the laborer's massive prick inside me. I'd spent the whole time satisfying three very hungry asses. Stan, once he'd gotten used to being fucked, was a natural, and took everything I could give him. Bert and Sean, more at home in Sodom than the newly arrived young cop, were even more eager. But I couldn't stop thinking, every time I saw the huge telegraph pole that stood out between Bert's sturdy, hairy thighs, that I would like to feel it inside me, pinning me down with his weight, fucking me into that state of trance that only a really big cock can achieve.

My friends and regular readers will know that, on the whole, I tend to take the active role in these encounters—partly, I suppose, through personal preference, but also because most men, in my experience, are so eager to take what they're not used to being given that I have very little
choice in the matter. Nature has equipped me for the job—I've got plenty to go around, and enough stamina to keep up with demand, even when, as in the last 24 hours, men were lining up with their asses open. But there comes a time in every man's life when he wants nothing more than to lie on his back with his legs in the air and take an enormous hard prick up his rectum, and that time had come for me. I felt an unscratchable itch in my rear parts—no, not the onset of hemorrhoids, but something much more welcome. If I didn't get fucked soon, I wouldn't be able to concentrate on the important business of getting Morgan out of trouble. A huge cock pounding in and out of your guts has a way of focusing the attention; as far as I'm concerned, it's a more effective path to enlightenment than some of the Eastern philosophies currently advocated by sandal-wearing vegetarians in Bloomsbury.

It was a nice morning, so I walked from Tooting down to Wimbledon, hoping that I didn't smell too obviously of sex; the washing facilities at the Ship were, to say the least, rudimentary, and I was convinced that anyone passing within a few feet of me would have detected the musky waft of cock and ass.

Morgan's house was quiet, with another police officer at the gate—this one responded to my friendly greeting only with a surly grunt. I rang the doorbell, not at all sure whether I would gain admittance, but within a moment the pale, round face of the maid appeared, looking frankly terrified.

“My name is Edward Mitchell. I've been visiting Mr. Morgan. Is he at home?”

“No, sir. He never came back last night. Missus telephoned. She told us you were coming. Oh dear, sir, whatever is going on?”

“Everything's under control,” I said, thinking the opposite. “No need to worry.”

She let me in, thank God—the copper at the gate was starting to give me dirty looks, as if I were some muckraking journalist sniffing around the scent of blood. Blood! That reminded me—the bathroom! I hoped, for the maid's sake, that it was still locked.

“Did Mrs. Morgan tell you anything?”

“No, sir. Just that we were to let you in and give you anything you needed.”

“That's all?”

She frowned and bit a nail. “Oh, yes. I'm not to do the bathroom today. It's to be kept locked. Broken glass in there, I suppose. One of the panes is smashed. Has there been an accident, sir?”

“That's it. Nasty accident with the glass. Someone cut themselves.” I thought I had better mention the possibility of blood, knowing that the maid would almost certainly have peeked through the broken pane and may have seen some stomach-turning evidence of self-slaughter.

“Nasty stuff, broken glass,” she said, looking far from harrowed. Perhaps her curiosity was not as great as I imagined. “Cook's downstairs in the kitchen, sir, if you require any refreshment.”

I was starving, having skipped dinner last night and spent a considerable amount of energy satisfying three greedy asses, and the thought of a proper English breakfast was very appealing. The maid trotted downstairs to convey my request for eggs, bacon, toast, marmalade, and coffee.

I was halfway up the stairs when it suddenly struck me—the blood was gone from the hall floor. I turned, looked back, crawled along the hall on my hands and knees, but of blood there was not a trace. Belinda always had a knack for employing good domestics; this maid was clearly worth her weight in gold.

It was hard to believe that this was the same house where a man had taken his life with a straight razor—where
three men had fucked in the bathroom, where I'd fucked Morgan and sucked off PC Knight. Calm and decency had descended like a veil. The broken pane of glass, and the horror beyond, were covered up. The bloodstain in the hall was cleaned away. It was as if nothing had happened. Morgan and Belinda might simply have taken the children out for a walk. Fatigue hit me, and the reality of the case seemed to recede as a dream fades upon waking.

Food and coffee helped, and within an hour I was ready to start work. I smoked a cigarette in Morgan's den, and went over the facts.

Morgan and Frank Bartlett were lovers—they had been for 18 months, according to both Morgan himself and the evidence of Arthur Tippett, who witnessed their first encounters. The affair had continued, despite Morgan's occasional attempts to break it off—and Bartlett had bound him with gifts of money and property, possibly acquired through some shady dealing with his own business accounts. Finally, when Morgan had threatened a final separation, Bartlett staked his all on a final throw of the dice, naming Morgan as his heir in a new will that would make him a very rich young man upon his benefactor's death.

That, at least, was one interpretation of events. The other, less welcome, reading cast Morgan as an opportunistic gold digger who, realizing that Frank Bartlett was head over heels in love with him, proceeded to exploit the older man's infatuation by demanding ever more extravagant gifts, threatening to leave him, raising his price with every fresh round of negotiations, finally driving Bartlett to the desperate measure of disinheriting his own wife and then, despairing when Morgan threw it all back in his face, killing himself rather than facing the music. And that would leave Morgan sitting pretty. Sure, the will would be contested by Bartlett's widow—but it would surely be watertight. Bartlett and Ross, after all, were major City solicitors. Bartlett would
hardly have gone to the trouble of making a will if it were not going to be done properly. It had been drawn up by his partner, Walter Ross—unwillingly, perhaps, and against advice, but this would not be the sort of impulsive will that the courts can blow apart. This would be a testament of stone.

Of course, I didn't know the terms of the will, whether Bartlett had made Morgan his sole heir or simply a beneficiary—but, if I allowed myself to imagine Morgan as this cocksucking Machiavelli, I thought it highly likely that his demands would have been absolute. All—or nothing. Vivien Bartlett would be thrown back on the mercy of her family while Morgan, acting surprised, moved his wife and children into the no-doubt-luxurious Teddington home and spent the rest of his life enjoying the fruits of the Bartlett estate. He would give up his job at the bank, travel around the world looking for more horny old men, selling his ass to the highest bidder…

No. It was not possible. Apart from anything else, Morgan wasn't clever enough to come up with a scheme like this. Setting aside my belief in his fundamental honesty—though that had taken one hell of a battering when I found out about the will—I just couldn't imagine Morgan having the application to work it all out. Maybe it just fell into his lap, and he was carried along on a tide of circumstance—that was much more like the Morgan I knew, powerless to resist temptation. But even so, there was a core of decency in the man that would never allow Bartlett to ruin himself and his wife in that way—wasn't there?