Underground Guy

I saw him on London’s underground, looking tired, sad, alone. Sleepy gray eyes under honey-colored brows. Thick hair covering a classic skull and cropped close enough to see he had a couple of scars in his scalp. Aquiline nose. Taut lips. Strong neck under a clean chin. Smooth cheekbones. Mid-twenties. His shoulders broad. His chest full and round under a threadbare red hoodie. No gut to him, even sitting sloped over. He got on at Knightsbridge and grabbed a seat near the rear door of the carriage close to where I was standing, his focus on his cell phone — excuse me, mobile phone — the whole time. His dark cargo pants were smudged with white paint and his legs filled them just right. Smallish feet in basic tennis shoes splashed with more paint counterpointed by powerful hands. A workman’s hands. All the complete opposite of what I like ... and of me.

I look as Italian-American as they come — with a Roman nose in good proportion to my face and chin, a wrestler’s build that’s stocky but tight thanks to running five miles a day, dark hair everywhere there should be, eyes so brown and wary they’re close to black, clean-shaven, and sporting a suit and tie instead of casuals. Very Brooklyn, even in London.

My preferred type was like this one man who entered just before my underground guy at the same station and stood right by the door — tall, dark, good-looking in a Jewish way. Either side of thirty, which put him about my age, and wearing a sleek suit of brushed wool — a lot sharper than the one I got on sale at Macy’s. Probably Savile Row. A neat goatee, trim body and no briefcase

added to the sense he was someone whose life was perfectly organized. What was even better? I caught him casting my guy a low-key look of appraisal. The second I saw that I knew it wouldn’t have taken much to get him out of his suit, and under normal circumstances I’d have found a way to strike up a conversation with him, get him back to my hotel and spend a few hours in bed because I really needed a fuck.

But nothing was normal for me, right then, and for some reason the sad guy kept drawing my attention. I can’t explain it ... except I noticed he wasn’t happy about a text he got. He made a reply, waited for an answer and took a deep breath at what he read. The vague lines in his forehead drew deeper and his eyes darker. The news was obviously not good and I felt for him ... which was weird because, to be honest, fair-haired Englishmen never really interested me. But even Savile Row’s dark perfection and calm control couldn’t drag me away from the little drama unfolding before me via text as my underground guy tensed and shifted and leaned back and scrunched and shifted upright, each movement increasing my awareness of his beauty.

We were on the Piccadilly line, westbound, and it was getting to be solid with evening commuters, every damn one of them the typical English sort. I was standing not three feet from him just a bit to his left, and I’m not embarrassed to say I was gazing upon him like some needy puppy seeking a treat or scratch behind the ears. He finally noticed as we pulled into Hammersmith, gave me a couple of quick confused glances then scrunched deeper into his seat. He shifted so I could see his left hand held a thick gold ring on his third finger, and he pulled up a photo of a woman and some children on the phone’s screen. Then he got into another serious back and forth via text.

Him sending me a subtle hint that he’s not into dick is no problem for me; I’ve had lots of straight guys. But I was way too impatient to take the time needed for a decent seduction, so I decided to adjust my gaze to Savile Row ... only my underground guy leaned forward to rest his arms on his lovely thighs, still focused on his phone, and in his reflection in the window I noticed he had a tattoo of some Asian character on the elegant nape of his neck. Japanese, it looked like.

Beautiful.

Heartbreaking.

I’d seen it before ... something like it ... and I got caught in one of those moments where you almost glimpse what the memory is but can’t quite grasp it. Then he leaned even farther in and the hoodie pulled lower to expose the frayed collar of a faded green t-shirt and the beginning of yet another Japanese character and —

My heart began to pound. My breath went soft and sharp. I totally forgot Savile Row, forgot the mess in my brain — hell, damn near forgot that I was headed back to the States, tomorrow.

All that mattered was him.

He was my prey ... and it was all I could do to keep from reaching over just to ruffle his hair to let him know the chase was on, I was so overwhelmed by the idea of having him.

I snuck some photos on my cell phone, which only made him lovelier.

And lovelier.

And lovelier.

My focus became so intent he tightened even more. Oh, he knew I was interested ... hell, a blind fuckin’ poodle would’ve known. But he wasn’t acting like a man who’s freaked out by my attention; it was more like he was surprised. I wondered if he was wondering if this might be the way to make a bit of extra money. Let the fag suck him off for a quick fifty. Looked like he could use it.

I watched him work his texts. Work through confusion ... then wariness ... finally ending with a weary stubbornness over some decision he’d made. I figured it was marital trouble. Maybe telling the wife he’d be late for dinner and she was pissed. Which hurt him. Made him sadder. And more beautiful than anyone I had ever seen.

My heart pounded stronger. Son-of-a-bitch, I had to have him. Had to be with him. Completely. No matter what it took.

He glanced at Savile Row a few times. I almost thought my guy expected something to happen between them, but that man was too lost in his own contemplations, so he cast one more half-glance my way, sent a last text then put his phone in his hoodie pocket and, as we were pulling into Hounslow East, stood up.

I stopped breathing for a moment, because those legs flowed into what was promising to be the most perfect ass ever in existence. Then as he worked his way to the door he brushed against me — his solid arm rubbing mine, almost like he was saying Here I am — and I fell headlong into animal mode.

And followed him.

Okay, that was a stupid thing to do. Period. Like I said, not one real, honest, serious ping on my gaydar. The most I could even have hoped for was the cash-for-access scenario, and while the thought of making an offer did dance across my mind it died quick ... because I wanted more than that would give me. A hell of a lot more. But getting a straight guy’s no problem for me; it all depends on how far you’re willing to go.

And I’d learned a long time ago that I had no limit.

I hopped off the train and watched him stride down the platform, and his legs did not disappoint. The right length and shape with just a hint of footballer’s bandiness to them and a soft suggestion of being pigeon-toed. Hands shoved in his pockets. Ass rocking with the promise of solid smooth symmetry. Even his bit of swagger was nothing more than that of a guy who’s used to being athletic and in charge. I prowled after him, soft and stealthy.

He used an Oyster Card to exit, not once noticing he was being followed. Outside, he cut left into an area of typical English shops, and I sauntered after him. People were out and about shopping for dinner or walking their kids or dogs or just taking a stroll. Cars and trucks whizzed past as jets roared into the sky, Heathrow being just a few stops further down the line.

Man — getting him wasn’t going to be easy.

He jaywalked to the other side and hurried down a long narrow street of homely row-houses that led to a modern high-rise block of what I think were apartments. A cube truck took up one lane as it unloaded goods, and there were cars parked along both curbs ... but none were actually coming or going. Low fences blocked in tiny front yards. All very depressing.

Now for all I knew this guy was a black belt in Aikido or had years of experience in street fighting. And looking at how strong and sure just his walk was, I knew he wouldn’t be an easy mark. Plus I didn’t know the area so had no idea if we’d get to a place that was isolated enough for me to make a move — but none of that mattered; all I cared about was finding some way of gaining ownership of that ass, and if the right location sprouted up and I had half a chance ... I could do it.

How?

Easy — I wrestled in high school and college, and I’m still in top shape. Also, he wouldn’t be my first ... oh ... let’s call it conquest. Hell, not even my tenth. On top of that I have a roll of packing tape in my briefcase. You can carry that crap anywhere in the world without question and it’s perfect when you need to subdue a guy who might know how to fight; it’s too sticky to slip out of, hard as hell to tear and also makes a great gag. Finally, I had a little tub of Vaseline, very nondescript and perfect as lube.

So as we walked I slipped the roll out, shifted the strap of my briefcase so it hung behind my back and got a length of the tape started. All I needed was the right spot to make my move. That was always the tricky part.

We passed a slim passageway between two sections of houses that provided access to a narrow overgrown strip of foliage running between them and the underground’s elevated tracks. I had noticed it from the depot’s platform and figured it was to minimize the noise of passing trains. If we came to another passageway ... yeah, that might work. And if another train was rolling by, it could cover any yells he might make.

But then some people came out of a house across the street and strolled towards the main drag, enjoying the final decent days before winter. Okay, witnesses would not be at all conducive to a successful endeavor. Still ... they were facing the other way and no one was ahead of us, and reality was something had to happen soon; we were closing in on that apartment block.

Then I saw a house was being remodeled, up ahead. It had scaffolding around it and piles of refuse filled the yard. And it looked like there was another small passageway between it and the next section of houses. Even better, the windows were dark.

And a train was coming, headed back to town.

So this was it.

Now or never.

I lengthened the strip of tape, slow and quiet as we neared the house. Got closer and closer to the scaffolding. My heart raced. My breath was short and sharp. My dick twitched at the idea it might be having some fun. The feel of my boxer-briefs on my balls and thighs was electrifying.

And sure enough — there was a small alleyway there, half-hidden by a full dumpster.

The train slowed as it neared the station so the second he reached the alleyway I jumped him and whipped the tape around his body to trap his arms — right one bent up to his neck, left one just above his elbow — and all he had time to yell was, “What the fook?” before I whipped tape around his mouth to muffle him and slammed my own arm around his chest and yanked him behind the materials. He tried to flip me but I dropped and rolled, still holding him, then whipped more tape tight around him to secure him even better. He struggled but he had no leverage to fight back.

I crushed him to the ground, face up, and finished the gag with a couple wraps around. He kicked at me so I twisted around and sat on his thighs to secure his ankles with the tape then jumped to my feet. I had him and it took twenty, maybe thirty seconds.

The house had a side door that was slightly open so I rammed my hands under his arms and dragged him inside. He bucked and fought and tried to gasp out cries for help and demands to know what I was doing but the tape muffled him. He was also working at getting one hand loose, even as he kept trying to talk and keep my focus on his face.

I kicked the door closed. A quick glance showed the place was completely empty — stairs to the left, hallway back to the kitchen, open double doors for the living room to my right — so that’s where I dragged him. He really began to buck and kick and curse and fight to get away from me, sending some pretty loud cries out even through his gag, so I whipped more of it around his mouth a couple times to completely muffle his cries.

Then I forced his semi-free hand up to the other one, taped his wrists together and jabbed the tape around his torso with my fingernail clipper’s file to break it. He tried to smack me with an elbow but I flipped him onto his belly, yanked both his hands over his head to the back of his neck and secured his wrists there by wrapping more tape around the gag. Then I rolled him onto his back.

Now I could stand up and put my briefcase aside — it had jammed into me a couple of times so I’d be bruised, in the morning. Still ... I stretched and savored the moment. That’s when I finally realized my dick was hard as a rock. He must have felt it, even through my boxer-briefs, because when he looked at me he had those big wide eyes a guy gets when he realizes he’s not being robbed but something else is going to happen. Something worse, in his mind.

Man ... seeing him like this ... I couldn’t move he was so fucking gorgeous. The line of his body from his shoulders to his hips. His arms pumped and straining under the frayed cotton hoodie. The left sleeve had torn at the seam to reveal the underarm of that ratty green t-shirt and part of a bicep that was defined in all the right ways. The fullness of his pecs was enhanced by his arms being held behind his head, and they were matched by the fullness of his crotch and thighs and even his calves. I think I stopped breathing for a moment, and I seriously wished I’d had time to work my way into his bed instead of this catch and grab crap.

And I have talked straight men into bed plenty of times. Depending on the guy it could be a long-term process of days or weeks of nudging and leading and hinting and subtly building in his mind that he’s just trying it out to see what it’s like kind of shit-talk. I’d only gone through that much trouble a couple of times, and then only because it was so much fun to watch their faces as they realized they not only got off on being with a man, they damn near passed out from the sensation. I got repeats off every one of them and I’d made damn sure they got the full experience every time.

Of course, it could also be the right number of beers or puffs on a joint to make them open up. Those types were always one-timers because they’d blame their enjoyment on the mind-altering crap and never on the quality of your involvement. Not that I minded; they tended to be good-looking enough to have fun with if you’re horny, but not necessarily someone I wanted twice.

But my underground guy? Just looking at him, the way everything about him fit together in damn near perfect symmetry ... I didn’t want a one-time thing with him. I wanted something I’ve never even thought about before — days ... weeks ... months.

Which made absolutely no sense. Aside from the fact that he wasn’t my usual type what did I think I was going to do? Take him back to the States in my luggage and not declare him at customs? Keep him locked in a closet of my Brooklyn condo? Bring him out when I got the itch for some English beef? Yeah, that’d work.

I had to shake myself to return to the moment’s reality ... and remember that breathing is good if you want to stay conscious. But it was hard to keep my mind on that because the bottom edge of his shirt and hoody had ridden up to reveal some of the soft swirling hair on his belly. A gentle light filtered through a tiny part of the bay window that was not hidden by the scaffolding and trash to lie across it, causing it to gleam like down, elegant and pure. I pulled out my phone and snapped a couple of images.

I noticed he was wearing a back brace so asked, “Did you hurt your back?”

He seemed not to hear me.

I knelt beside him and he shifted away, scared, so I whispered, “Listen, don’t worry; I’m not gonna hurt you. If you work with me I’ll make you happy, even.” At the same time, I let my fingers drift over the soft hairs spreading across his exposed belly.

He flinched and shook his head. He knew what was up.

I stood and removed my suit coat, undid my tie and unbuttoned my shirt to reveal my own nice set of pecs to him. I strutted a little as I hung my coat on a nearby doorknob. Yeah, there’s some beef on me, but it’s solid while my ass — let’s just say I’ve been told it would turn the straightest man queer when he saw it. So let’s put that to the test. I turned away from him and glanced back over my shoulder as I slipped off my shoes and undid my pants.

“Be happy I’m not some fat bastard clown in Chicago doing this,” I said as the pants dropped to reveal my good solid legs. I stepped out of them, my raging hard-on pressing against the boxer-briefs’ cotton. Since that needed some relief, too, I dropped the briefs, lifted the tail of my shirt and smacked my cheeks with the other hand. Then I turned to stand before him in all my glory.

My dick’s not the biggest ever — my older brother, Colin, got the better deal in that — but I’ve had plenty of men tell me it’s worthy of being worshipped ... who then proved it by doing it. Pun intended. And right now? It was at its height of perfection.

He shook his head and tried to back away from me, but all he could do was push with his legs or roll. Can’t go far that way. I yanked off my socks and dropped down to pin him on his back and sit on his crotch, my dick pointed straight at his face.

“I mean it,” I said, almost giggling. “You’re too pretty to hurt. I’ll even leave the brace on. Just work with me — play along — everything’ll be fine.”

Then I slowly unzipped his hoodie, inch by inch, to reveal the thin green t-shirt had even more tears in it. Recent ones that must have happened when we wrestled. It lay across his chest like silk drifting over gentle hills, showing the barest hint of nice pointy nipples. I ran my hands over them then pulled the front of the hoodie open, let my hands whisper down his sides then up his belly to his pecs and finally the shirt’s collar ...

And tore it open.

I didn’t mean to, because that made him flinch and struggle, but it added so damn much to the moment of revelation. He had exactly what I expected in the way of a chest — firm and nicely developed with just the right spritz of hair swirling over his skin and around a pair of elegant tits. I flicked at them and he almost yelped and I realized I still had my socks in one hand and —

A car slammed up, outside. Blue lights flickered through the exposed sections of the bay window.

Shit, it was a cop.