The Princess and his Prince

Reader discretion is adviced, this story contain graphic content depicting violence which may not be suitable to all readers. This is a fictional story and do not portray real events or real persons.

If there was one thing Simon Crawford cared for more than his passenger, it was driving. The more traffic, the busier the roads, the more he liked it. So it was that he sped from comfortable suburban Beckenham into the congested delights of central London. All the while he and Adam chatted, sometimes pausing their conversation to award marks out of 10 to men in passing vehicles. Adam was full of excitement at the prospect of three weeks in Eastampton in the doting embrace of his maternal grandparents.

Not for the first time since the end of term, last week, Adam talked of his final meeting with Mr. Robinson.

“I still think he is the most beautiful man in the known universe,” Adam sighed as the Ford Mondeo ducked and weaved a circuitous route to Euston station.

With skill, cheek and luck, Simon glided his car into a spot near the railway station that he had no business occupying at all. The two hugged and kissed warmly.

“Never mind princess,” at least you got to give him that drawing,- and from what I hear the tasty Gareth will be a guest next month when our examination results are published,- and for what will pass  as the senior school party in the evening. So you will see him then.”

A traffic warden hove into view. She paused, as another driver where he should not be, caught her attention.

“Give my love to Ida and Gilbert.”

“ I surely will. My grandparents will miss you, Simon.”

“Make sure you get a decent seat,” said Simon grinning as though train travel were some mystery to them.- Which in truth, it almost was. The traffic warden resumed a surprisingly slow pace in their direction.

“We should not trespass too long on her good will,”  Simon cautioned, as with a final and ostentatious kiss and  rucksack in hand, Adam stepped from the car onto the pavement.

He saw Simon mouth the words, ‘thank-you’ to the traffic warden, as he sped away.  When Simon had disappeared from view Adam took a deep breath. He was going on a little adventure of his own. He ignored Euston station. Instead he planned to take the tube to Brent Cross and then hitch hike to Eastampton, provided of course he could hitch a lift at the beginning of the motorway before some vigilant police patrol stopped him.

In the boot of his Mondeo lurked a large canvas bag containing an assortment of toys, whips and restraints. Simon was sworn to secrecy not because he lacked discretion, but because Ludo Pearson had asked it of him. A friend of many, including Adam and himself, Ludo illuminated and ornamented any gathering he attended; and until last week that of course included Thornberry Independent Grammar School. Unlike both Simon and Adam, who had disappointed the good Dr. Unsworth and their respective parents in their choice of universities, Ludovic had disappointed no one. To Durham he would go and God willing, would in the fullness of time become a Clerk in Holy Orders.

“Who knows”, teased, Simon as the arrangements for their rendezvous were agreed, “I might be enslaving a future Archbishop of Canterbury for a long weekend.”

With Adam safely delivered to Euston station,- and so he thought to the 12.30 to Eastampton, the temptation to take the less obvious route to Ealing and Ludo Pearson was too much. There would still be time to collect his future reverence and speed to Scarborough in time for dinner and whatever delights might unfold thereafter. He found a large, nondescript café in a poor part of London he did not know. Some kind of new office bloc was being constructed nearby. As he hoped, the café offered strong tea and possibly a builder to match. Legs splayed, he exchanged glances with a largish man, in his late 20s, all hardhat and attitude. He was obviously a few years older than Simon, which at that moment added to the sense of intrigue and desire pulsing along Simon’s cock. Whomever the object of Simon’s interest was, he halve sneered, halve smiled as he walked slowly and deliberately passed the younger man.

He paused, glanced back and scowled in appreciation as Simon stood and followed him.

“What ya like then,” he asked as they entered the gents lavatory and quickly ascertained that they were alone.

“To fuck your back legs off,” came the steady reply.

“You’ll be lucky posh boy!”

“I will indeed,” growled Simon crashing their mouths together and grinding his demanding body against this bit of rough. They snogged with demanding purpose, each determined to concede nothing as they stripped, or rather, as to the bigger man’s surprise, it was his lower body being quickly laid bare. The bigger man’s size and apparent strength seemed to falter. In two moves he was unbalanced and spun round. Clinging to the bog, knees pressed hard against the seat he heard the sound of what he hoped was a condom.

Suddenly, almost discrete coughs announced someone entering the lavatory.

“Fuck off,” shouted Simon as with a minimal amount of spital to ease his entry, he thrust his ramrod cock into the hairy ravishing arse before him.

“You’re a good shag, I’ll say that for you.”

Once, twice, three times and more his thrusting hips propelled his cock into the grunting man’s cavernous hole. Whether his fuckee was enjoying the experience, Simon could not really have cared less. But he knew enough of what he was about to recognize intimations of satisfaction when he heard them.

“There is more fucking space in here than in a Transport for London garage,” panted Simon, as his balls tingled and falling across the back of the stranger, he shot rods of cum into the furthest depths of the man’s arse.

The pair staggered from the cubicle hardly able to keep their balance. As fast as it took to empty his seed Simon now splashed cold on his cock and recalling his mother’s words, ‘made himself presentable.’ At first, he did not entirely believe his ears. But a glance in the mirror sent a chill from his head to his toes. He spun round to face the man hardly a metre in front of him and brandishing a vicious looking knife. Out of nowhere, it occurred to him that he was glad that Adam was on a train heading for the East Midlands.

“Now’s pay up time posh boy! Cash first then we’ll take a little walk to the cash machine next door and see what you have in your account.” For added emphasis, the point of the knife rested at Simon’s throat.

“I don’t suppose we could discuss this, perhaps reach a compromise?”

The look in the man’s eyes spoke a  response that left no shadow of doubt. Any words  would have been superfluous.

“I thought not,” responded Simon, evidently now deflated and clearly fearful. The arrogance that went with the fucking,-still burning pleasantly in the knife holder’s arse,- was gone. Was that a tear he saw in the eyes of the posh boy?

The man laughed mirthlessly at his prey. Casually taking one step back and moving his knife just a fraction and for the merest hint of time, from the posh boy’s throat.

Upon the instant Simon moved with the blurring flash of light. There would be one chance. A mistake or a hesitation and he might never see Adam or his parents again. His fist plowed into the man’s stomach. His right knee shot up into the man’s bollocks at precisely the second his right hand chopped down hard on the back of the man’s neck. Considerately, Simon stepped to one side allowing his assailant to fall groaning and spewing to the floor.

“You complete bastard,” he cried. “If ever I clap eyes on you again, I swear I’ll kill you.”

Lest that point be unclear, Simon began kicking the prone figure in the back. Seeing himself a tableau of contorted fury in the mirror, stayed his assault. For he hardly reconised the person he saw. He caught his breath and put his head under the cold water tap. The man attempted to get up, but the look on the posh boy’s face made him fall back into his vomit and blood,-and now it transpired, piss as well.

Curious to know who the man was, Simon took his wallet and mobile phone. To his surprise the wallet contained 10, twenty pound notes. After scrutinising the contents of the man’s phone he stamped on it until it was reduced to worthless bits.

“Count slowly to 1500, then you may remove your sorry arse out of here.”

The man nodded in silence.

Seeing the gold plated knife and its sheath, Simon picked them up as he left the toilet.

The café became still and silent, as he walked back in. All eyes upon him. Appraising them quickly, Simon concluded that fear and apprehension, rather than a desire to be brave, held the dozen or so customers in it’s thrall. He certainly hoped so.

“My apologies ladies and gentlemen. Be assured, all is resolved, you have nothing to fear.

“A black coffee please,” he said with equal courtesy to the proprietor. He opened the man’s wallet, placing a £20 note on her counter. She made to pick it up. Gently and only for a moment, he placed his hand over hers.

The handsome dark haired young man produced another twenty. He sipped his coffee.

“The gentleman currently occupying your facilities is a little disheveled, at the moment. He will be leaving your premises almost imminently.”

Two more notes appeared.

“He of course apologises for the inconvenience this has clearly caused.”

Two more notes appeared.

“I should have called the police,” said the proprietor, displaying her first expression of anger.

“Perhaps so,” agreed the young man, after a moment of reflection. He placed another £20 note on the counter and sipped his black coffee.

“But you did not; and in any event, I am sure we need not trouble the Metropolitan Police, need we?”

The final three £20 notes joined their fellows.

Simon sipped his coffee hardly daring to count the passing seconds.

At length, the proprietor nodded her head. Almost imperceptivity, but it was a nod.

“And we don’t want you here ever again,” she said to the young man’s back as he left her cafe.