By J.P. Bowie
The year was 1989, the month, May. I was in London on a short vacation. It had rained every day since I’d arrived and I was tired of trolling through museums and art galleries with a guide and a bunch of damp tourists. In the National Portrait Gallery I had stopped in front of a painting by Gainsborough when I became aware of someone standing much too close to be just another pretend art aficionado.
I glanced sideways, then had to look up. He was that much taller than I—enough to be somewhat intimidating. The outline of his profile was strong, determination—dominance?— in the set of his mouth. I didn’t move away. Our shoulders touched and he grazed the back of my hand with his knuckles.
“There’s a gents round the corner to the right,” he murmured close to my ear, then walked away.
I should have been offended—what did he think I was? Instead, I was aroused. Aroused?, I was fucking aching for more of him. I could still feel the effect of his skin on mine. I rubbed the place where he’d touched me and looked around the cavernous hall for the exit. Gents, I thought as I slipped away from the tour group. He must be British. Why did that make this…assignation…seem even more daring? Any cautionary warning that probably should have gone off in my head, was negated by my dick leading the way like an arrow on a compass pointing to the North Star.
The restroom was empty but a deep voice I already recognized beckoned me to the last stall. I practically fell over my feet in my eagerness to reach the door that swung open as I approached. A hand reached out grabbed me by the front of my T-shirt and hauled me inside. In this confined space he was taller, bigger than I remembered. Huge really… He slammed me up against the wall, and took my mouth in a kiss that could only be described as brutal, and fantastic, and…shit just about any way you could describe it. My senses reeled from the onslaught of his lips and tongue and the fact that he had so easily lifted me off the ground with one hand, and had me pinned against the wall. With his free hand he ripped open my jeans and squeezed my cock and balls with an intensity that had me gasping with pain and moaning with rapture.
“You like pain do you?” he whispered, his breath filling my mouth.
“No…yes…anything you want…”
“I want to punish you, tie you up, smack that delicious bum of yours ‘til it’s flaming red, fuck you so hard you’ll scream until you can’t scream no more, never let you come until I say you can… Would you like that? You would, wouldn’t you? You know you deserve it, don’t you? Deserve to be punished…”
“Yes,” I said, my breath ragged with desire. “Yes, I want all of that…but not here.”
“My hotel room. It’s not far from here…we can walk.” Or fucking run, most likely…
“Right then.” He planted another kiss on my mouth, almost sucking my tongue out by the roots.
Jesus H. Christ, I was going to have enough pain and bruises on me to remember this trip for the rest of my life. Punishment? It was going to be more like a fucking reward for being the bad boy I’d always wanted to be.
He stepped back, releasing me so abruptly my ass almost hit the tile floor. “See you outside, then.” And he was gone. I fumbled rapidly with my jeans, zipping up and staggering out of the stall, still hardly believing what had happened. Jesus, I couldn’t wait for the rest of it…
The high pitched screech of an alarm filled the air as I exited the restroom. People were milling about, babbling and waving their arms about while a recorded voice told us not to panic, but to leave the gallery in an orderly fashion. Only nobody was listening. A mass of bodies streamed toward the exit, sweeping me off my feet and slamming me down head first, onto the marble floor.
I awoke in Charing Cross Hospital, in a lot of pain and covered with bruises. I’d remember this trip all right, but for all the wrong reasons. Punishment indeed.