The Back Passage by James Lear

By James Lear

Agatha Christie, circulate over! Hard-core intercourse and scandal meet during this brilliantly humorous whodunit.A beach village, an English state apartment, a relations of rich eccentrics and their both abnormal servants, a made up our minds detective — the entire constituents are right here for a comfortable Agatha Christie-style whodunit. yet wait — Edward “Mitch” Mitchell is not any Hercule Poirot, and The again Passage is not any homicide of Roger Ackroyd. Mitch is a good-looking, insatiable 22-year-old hunk who by no means shall we a clue stand within the means of a steamy come across, no matter if it’s with the neighborhood constabulary, the home secretary, or his tuition friend and fellow athlete Boy Morgan, who turns into his Watson whilst they’re now not busy boffing one another. whilst Reg Walworth is located lifeless in a cupboard, Sir James Eagle has his servant Weeks instantly arrested because the killer. yet Mitch’s observant eye pegs extra believable percentages: polysexual chauffeur Hibbert, queenly pervert Leonard Eagle, lacking scion Rex, sadistic copper Kennington, even Sir James Eagle himself. Blackmail, police corruption, a dizzying community of spyholes and mystery passages, watersports, and a nonstop queer orgy backstairs and everyplace else mark this hilariously hard-core secret through an incredible new expertise.

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Certainly, officer. " But not half as sorry as you are to have a witness of just how the English police treat their prisoners, I thought. " I did not want to overplay an already weak hand, so, as the sergeant began to advance toward me, I turned and fled. The early-evening light in the overgrown garden was blinding, and I stumbled over a broken chair frame as I made my way back to the front of the building and walked briskly up the road. As I reached the village green, I saw Shipton walking his bike back toward the station.

From beyond the scope of my vision. "Bring the prisoner over here, Brown," the sergeant said. " Piggott stepped out of the circle of light; all I could see of him now was one huge, hairyknuckled hand working his prick to even more prodigious dimensions. Much as I disapproved of what was going on, I happily could have watched the show for as long as it lasted-but my attention was drawn by something much more arresting. Meeks, the prisoner, had been thrust into the circle of light, where he instantly fell to his knees.

We'd already done the foreplay, in the cupboard and in the bathroom, where he had come down my throat. But this was nothing compared to what I had planned-and, murder or no murder, tonight was the night he was going to get what was coming to him. Morgan had been half-asleep for the last hour before bedtime, bored to death by the conversation, warmed by the wine and port and exhausted by a trying day. Sir James and Lady Caroline would occasionally look over to see him nodding off in his chair, while poor, neglected Belinda tinkled aimlessly on the piano or tried to engage Lady Diana in girlish small talk, for which she showed no inclination.

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