In Plain Sight
1. The Marble
Outside the British Museum, a muggy, humid July rain was washing over London. Inside, Paul was dry, dressed in a lightweight, short-sleeved madras button-down—and, for the first time in five days, entirely off the clock.
Jen had confined her kids to their cramped Airbnb—a necessary quarantine after Paul had enthusiastically encouraged his niece and nephew to devour their body weight in sausage rolls, scones and clotted cream fudge at Borough Market the day before.
Combine a massive fat and sugar crash with transatlantic jet lag, and the kids were entirely out of commission.
“Honestly,” Jen told him that morning, over a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. "You’re worse than they are. You’re on your own until they can keep a digestive biscuit down."
So here he was. The reliable, slightly guilty gay uncle, temporarily banished from duty.
As he strolled through the towering, glass-roofed Great Court, his boots padded softly on the smooth stone floor. He had a decent flat white in his hand. His hands weren’t sticky. He felt human again.
Leaving the bright main thoroughfare behind, Paul wandered aimlessly until he found himself in the hushed, cavernous halls of the Greek and Roman antiquities galleries. The lighting here was moodier, casting long shadows against the ancient stone walls.
He drifted past rows of shattered urns and headless torsos, eventually planting himself in front of an idealized marble statue of a discus thrower. Or something. Paul didn't bother reading the placard. He skipped it, too fixated on the sculptor's obsession with that iliac furrow—or, less academically, those cum gutters.
He took a slow sip of his coffee.
The marble was perfectly carved. The chest was broad, the hips narrow, the glutes a masterclass in anatomical aspiration. The problem with staring at the perfectly chiseled male form was that it immediately brought to mind a very specific, entirely flesh-and-blood comparison.
Paul shook his head, trying to dislodge the intrusive thought. He wasn't going to spend his one morning of freedom thinking about the army dad from the red-eye flight. That was a singularity. A fleeting, thirty-thousand-foot fever dream.
Paul took another sip of his coffee, his eyes tracking the chiseled, rigid line of the statue's marble jaw.
Then, the dusty, ancient air of the museum shifted.
A sharp, incredibly familiar scent cut through the sterile gallery—a crisp spike of spearmint gum mixed with damp, hot summer sweat.
Paul’s breath caught in his throat.
A solid, heavy shoulder bumped deliberately against his own.
"A little soft around the middle, don't you think?"
The voice was a low rumble that bypassed Paul's ears and settled directly in his crotch.
"And the equipment," the voice murmured, a wicked smirk in his tone, "is definitely coming up short."
2. The Ambush
Paul nearly dropped his flat white.
He whipped his head around, his heart doing a frantic, double-time rhythm against his ribs.
Standing there, hands shoved casually into his pockets, was the army dad. Sergeant Robson.
Rob.
He looked less like a tourist and more like one of the sculptures come to warm, fleshy life. A thin, short-sleeved olive henley clung to his pecs and thick biceps. His bare forearms were mapped with veins and dusted with coarse blond hair. The worn denim somehow held onto narrow hips, mounding visibly at the crotch in a way that made Paul’s jaw drop.
Is this guy just a walking advertisement for testosterone? Paul thought, his pulse roaring in his ears.
Rob’s signature cap was pulled low, drawing attention to his trim, blond mustache and the sandpaper-fine vacation stubble shadowing his square jaw. He worked a fresh piece of mint gum in that slow, hypnotic rhythm Paul remembered from the flight.
"Out of all the museums in London," Rob murmured, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "You had to walk into mine, city boy."
Paul swallowed hard. It had been exactly four days since they had stumbled out of that cramped first-class lavatory, but the visceral memory of gripping those hips and driving his cock deep inside the army dad's tight, scorching heat was still completely branded into his brain.
"Yours?" Paul managed, aiming for cool but landing somewhere closer to breathless. "I thought you'd be force-marching your platoon along the Thames by now."
Rob let out a heavy, tired exhale. "The missus took point today. She's determined to get some culture into the boys before they turn completely feral. She's two galleries over, trying to convince them that looking at broken pots is a fun vacation activity."
Paul's hand ran over his mouth, wondering if his scruffy three-day attempt at a mustache was even noticeable yet.
Rob’s eyes tracked the movement of Paul's hand, his gaze dropping to Paul's lips before he pulled a hand from his pocket and casually adjusted the brim of his cap. "I told her I needed to take a leak. Figured that buys me half an hour."
Paul stared at him. "Half an hour to use the bathroom?"
Rob gave a slow, unapologetic shrug. "Sometimes I get a little lost."
He stepped just an inch closer, invading Paul's personal space. The musk wafting off him cut right through the cool museum air.
"Didn't realize until now the exhibits here were so... interesting," he murmured, his eyes dropping to Paul's lips.
Paul’s mouth went completely dry. He glanced nervously around the bright, echoey hall filled with priceless artifacts. "So what… twenty-five minutes?"
"Exactly," Rob said, his eyes sparking with that now familiar challenge. "So we better not waste 'em."
3. The Blind Spot
Rob didn't wait for permission. His hand shot out, blunt fingers wrapping firmly around Paul’s bare bicep.
He paused for a fraction of a second, his grip tightening as he tested the solid muscle there. A slow, approving smirk touched his lips beneath the mustache.
"Come on, Guns."
With a swift, authoritative tug, he hauled Paul away from the bright, airy Greek gallery.
Paul stumbled a half-step. He downed the last lukewarm sip of his flat white and tossed the tiny paper cup into a passing bin without breaking stride as Rob steered him effortlessly into the crowded main thoroughfare. The museum was packed, a swirling sea of tourists, screaming toddlers, and guided tours, but Rob navigated the chaos like a soldier moving through a battlefield.
"Where are we going?" Paul hissed, his pulse hammering in his ears as they practically jogged past a display of Egyptian sarcophagi.
"Somewhere they aren't," Rob grunted, pulling Paul sharply around a massive stone column.
They ducked through a heavy set of stone archways, leaving the crowded, brightly lit exhibits behind. The air here was suddenly cooler. The lighting was dim and atmospheric. They had entered the Assyrian galleries, flanked by towering, imposing statues of winged bulls that cast long shadows across the polished floor.
Rob slowed for a fraction of a second. His gaze snapped to the ceilings, tracking cameras and calculating blind spots, before doing a rapid sweep of the sightlines down the intersecting corridors.
His eyes locked onto a target midway down the long, empty hall. A heavy oak set of double doors sat slightly ajar, propped open by a stray wooden wedge. A velvet rope was draped casually across the entryway, a small brass sign hanging from the center: Room 10: Assyrian Lion Hunt Reliefs – Closed for Maintenance.
Rob didn't even break stride. He checked over his shoulder—the corridor was empty—then unhooked the velvet rope with his free hand, shoved Paul through the gap, and slipped inside behind him.
The door shut with a heavy, muted thud, cutting off the echoing hum of the museum entirely. They were plunged into near darkness, lit only by the faint, ambient glow penetrating a high, frosted skylight.
As Paul's eyes adjusted, the room took shape. The gallery walls were paneled floor-to-ceiling in limestone slabs. Even in the dim light he could make out the intricate, carved reliefs projecting from the stone—ancient kings in chariots, drawn bows, and the sprawling shapes of hunted lions looming in the shadows.
Rob’s attention was on the long, pitch-black alcove, doing a rapid, secondary tactical assessment of their new surroundings.
"This'll do," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low growl in the quiet room.
Paul took in the thousands of years of carved history.
"Wow," he whispered, unable to hide his awe. "A private exhibit. You really know how to treat a guy."
Rob’s teeth flashed in the dim light, a wicked grin beneath his mustache. "I like to show a date a good time."
Before Paul could say another word, Rob crowded him. He shoved Paul backward, hard, until Paul’s shoulder blades hit the cold, carved stone of the gallery wall, pressed flat against a millennia-old hunting scene.
"Twenty minutes," Rob breathed against Paul's ear. His voice was a rough, commanding rasp that sent a shiver straight down Paul's spine. "Clock's ticking."
4. The Alcove
Rob’s mouth crashed down on Paul’s, swallowing whatever witty comeback Paul had at the ready.
The kiss was rough and urgent. It tasted of spearmint gum and milky coffee. The soft brush of Rob’s trim blond mustache tickled Paul’s upper lip as his tongue filled his mouth—the piece of mint gum rolling smoothly back and forth between them.
Rob’s thick fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of Paul’s neck. He broke the kiss, pulling back just a fraction.
"I bet I could fuck you right here," Rob purred. As if there was any doubt. He let his thumb drag deliberately across Paul's jawline. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Paul’s brain scrambled. His tongue completely stumbled over words. "Well... yeah."
Rob gave a low hum of approval. With a sudden, authoritative twist, he spun Paul around, slamming him chest-first into the ancient Assyrian reliefs.
The cool of the stone seeped through Paul’s thin summer shirt. But what made him gasp was Rob stepping in instantly, pressing his broad chest flush against Paul’s back. He was trapped between the heat of Rob's dense military muscle and the cold stone.
"Don't make a sound," Rob muttered, his hot breath and the rough scrape of his jaw ghosting over the shell of Paul's ear.
Rob reached down between their bodies, his deft fingers finding the heavy brass buckle of his own leather belt. He flicked it open to free himself up, his erection instantly pressing hard against Paul's ass.
Clink.
The metallic sound ricocheted off the towering stone walls.
Paul froze, his eyes going wide in the dark. A split second later, the muffled voice of a museum docent drifted through the thick oak doors, accompanied by the murmuring sound of a tour group pausing in the main corridor, directly outside their hideout.
“...and if you look at the towering winged bulls flanking this entryway, you’ll notice they actually have five legs, an optical illusion designed to make them look powerful from any angle...”
Paul’s heart hammered against his ribs. They were inches away. A single push of that door and they were entirely exposed.
Rob didn’t freeze. He leaned in closer, the low brim of his cap jabbing at the back of Paul’s head. He reached around to the front of Paul's waistband, his nimble fingers expertly snapping open the button of Paul's jeans and drawing the zipper down in an excruciatingly slow, metallic rasp.
He pushed the jeans and boxer briefs down past Paul's thighs, leaving Paul's bare skin exposed to the chill of the stone room.
Rob smoothly twisted his cap around so the brim faced backward. He pulled the wad of mint gum from his mouth, sticking it shamelessly right onto the carved stone edge of the priceless Assyrian relief, and dropped to his knees on the cool floor.
Paul’s palms slapped flat against the stone wall for balance as Rob’s rough hands gripped his hips, pulling Paul's ass out and flush against Rob's face.
Rob’s tongue went to work, lapping and penetrating. The wet, slick sounds of him eating Paul out echoed in the dark, completely at odds with the dry, academic voice droning on just on the other side of the door. The sandpaper scratch of Rob’s coarse jaw bristles dragging against Paul’s bare ass cheeks sent shockwaves up his spine.
"Oh my god," he whimpered.
“...the hunt was a symbol of the king's duty to protect his people...”
Paul dropped his forehead against the stone, his vision hazy as he fought to muffle his moans. He was completely unmoored, his hips drawn back helplessly as the army dad devoured his hole, while the clock ticked down.
When Paul was weak-kneed and completely slick, Rob finally pulled back. He stood up, his chest heaving beneath the tight henley. In one swift, authoritative motion, he shoved his own worn denim and briefs down his thighs, freeing a thick, veined, rock-hard cock.
"Damn," Rob murmured, a raunchy, thoroughly satisfied smirk in his rough voice. "You taste even better than you did at thirty thousand feet."
He reached up, spinning his cap back around so the brim sat low over his eyes, before spitting into his rough palm. He coated his erection in the thick spit, stepping into Paul's space, spreading his legs tight against the jeans at his calves.
"Ready, city boy?" Rob rasped, his stubble grazing Paul's neck.
Paul could only nod, his fingers white-knuckling the sharp edge of the ancient stone relief.
Rob bent at the knees, braced his hands on Paul's hips and drove himself inside in one long, unbroken upward thrust.
A loud, involuntary groan ripped from Paul’s throat as the thick girth stretched him and filled him. “FUCK!”
His shout was instantly killed by Rob’s hand reaching around, clamping firmly over Paul’s mouth and pulling his head back against his shoulder, swallowing the noise.
"Shh," Rob commanded, pushing deeper, grinding his hips in. "Quiet."
Paul bit down on the meaty edge of Rob’s palm as his eyelids went white inside.
The dull, unstoppable pressure of Rob’s cock filled him up, knocking over his defenses until his guts stopped fighting and yielded to the inevitability. And then the pressure melted down, leaving just the pure satisfaction of that military cock in command.
Rob’s free hand left Paul's hip. He brought it up to his mouth to spit a thick, wet wad of saliva into his open palm. He reached around to wrap his wet grip firmly around Paul's leaking, neglected cock, starting to pump him with ruthless precision, matching the stroke perfectly to the driving rhythm of his hips.
Rob was a machine. Every thrust was deep, measured, and devastating. The hardness of Rob's chest clapped against Paul’s back with every rhythmic slam. His hips, made for breeding, slapped up steadily in the cavernous dark, already building to a quick climax.
"Fuck yeah," Rob grunted, his hot breath and rough stubble ghosting over Paul's ear. "Nothing but boys. Gonna put some sons in you."
The thrill of the tour group chattering just outside the door spiked Paul's arousal into something blinding. Rob’s hand remained clamped over his mouth, muffling his desperate moans. The calloused thumb gently stroked Paul's cheekbone in a jarringly tender contrast to the rough, punishing rhythm of his hips and the relentless friction of his fist.
"That's it," Rob grunted, his breath hitching, the stoic army dad’s command complete. "Take it."
Paul couldn't hold back. Between the brutal stretch of the sergeant claiming his insides and the rough stroke of Rob's hand on his cock, he arched against the freezing stone. The pressure inside crested, and Paul came hard, shooting hot ropes into the museum air as a muffled cry broke against Rob's hot palm.
"Fuck yeah, make a mess," Rob growled roughly against his ear, his composure fracturing entirely. "Now take my load, city boy."
A second later, Rob’s hips locked. He drove himself flush against Paul one final time, burying his face in the crook of Paul’s neck as he grunted and cursed. The sandpaper scratch of his jaw dragged against Paul's skin. Rob's rigid muscles seized, his load pulsing deep inside.
After the first heavy dump, Rob’s hips stuttered, pumping the last dregs into Paul as he pressed a damp, heavy kiss to the back of Paul's neck, his punishing grip finally easing.
For a long, agonizing minute, neither of them moved. The only sounds in the ancient gallery were their harsh, overlapping breaths and the muffled sound of the tour group moving on to the next exhibit.
5. The Great Hall
Rob finally pulled back, pulling his semi out of Paul’s battered hole with a wet, heavy sound. He took a half-step away, letting out a thick exhale. "Hoo boy."
Paul sagged against the stone, his legs trembling as he gasped for air. He rested his forehead against the rough wall, his heart still hammering.
Then, his eyes adjusted.
The Assyrian slab he was using to keep himself upright came into focus. And so did the fresh, white mess plastered across the carved stone legs of an ancient king.
Paul’s breath caught in his throat. The post-orgasm haze vanished, instantly replaced by panic.
"Oh my god," Paul gasped, his eyes wide. He scrambled back, pulling his trousers up with shaking hands. "That's a priceless antiquity!"
Rob was calmly buckling his heavy leather belt. He glanced over, completely unfazed, a smirk beneath his mustache. "Looks like you made some history of your own, city boy."
"I’m going to British prison," Paul hissed, frantically pulling up his jeans to search the pockets. "Do you have tissues? Tell me you have tissues."
Rob chuckled, low and rumbling. He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a crumpled cafe napkin. He tossed it to Paul. "Hurry up. We gotta move."
Paul assessed the situation. International incident? Check. Worth it? Hell yes—but cleanup first.
He hastily wiped the stone and peeled a sticky wad of mint gum off a 645 BC lion hunt, wrapping it in the cummy napkin. Rob leaned casually against the heavy oak door. He looked entirely put together—broad shoulders squared, cap pulled low, a fresh piece of mint gum already working between his teeth. Only the sweaty flush on his neck gave away what had just happened.
"Ready?" Rob asked, his voice dropping back into that quiet, commanding register.
Paul let out a long breath, shoving the ruined napkin deep into his pocket to dispose of later, and nodded.
Rob cracked the heavy door open, his eyes scanning the corridor with military precision. The coast was clear. He slipped out first, holding the velvet rope up for Paul to duck under.
Stepping back into the brightly lit, bustling Assyrian gallery was like waking up from a fever dream. The sheer volume of the museum—the echoing footsteps, the chatter of tourists, the harsh fluorescent lights—hit Paul like a physical wave. He blinked, completely disoriented, feeling the lingering ache in his thighs and the ghost of Rob's cock inside him.
They walked side-by-side toward the Great Court, putting distance between themselves and Room 10.
They emerged into the massive, glass-roofed grand hall. Rob checked the heavy dive watch on his wrist. He let out a slow, heavy sigh—the quiet, inevitable concession to reality.
"Wife's gonna be looking for me," Rob murmured, his voice low enough to be lost in the crowd.
"Right," Paul said, his chest suddenly feeling unexpectedly tight. "Get back to your platoon, Sergeant."
Rob held his gaze. The reckless edge in his eyes softened, and the corner of his mustache twitched upward into a real, private smile.
"Aw, fuck," he muttered, shaking his head slightly as if conceding defeat to his own impulses. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the folded, glossy Central London tourist map. With a soft, heavy click, he produced a battered metal pen.
Before Paul could ask what he was doing, Rob’s heavy hand clamped onto Paul’s shoulder. With a smooth, effortless tug, he spun Paul around so his back was to him—a brazen, public echo of the alcove.
"Hold still," Rob murmured. The dense heat of him brushed deliberately against Paul’s spine as he braced the glossy map flat against Paul’s shoulder blades.
Paul’s face burned as he felt the firm, scratching pressure of the pen through his thin summer button-down. A dozen tourists walked right past them, completely oblivious to the charged bubble the army dad had just created in the middle of the grand hall.
"You know they sell notebooks in the gift shop, right?" Paul managed, aiming for a dry, detached tone and completely failing.
Rob gave a low, rumbling snicker. "Quiet in the ranks."
With another click, Rob shut the pen. He took Paul by the shoulder again, turning him back around to face him. He bumped his shoulder against Paul’s. As he did, his thick fingers smoothly slid the folded tourist map into Paul's breast pocket.
"See you around," Rob said, tipping the brim of his cap.
Paul swallowed. "Try to survive the shattered pots, Sergeant," he managed, an involuntary, fond smirk breaking through.
Before Paul could say another word, Rob was already stepping away, walking backward into the sea of tourists.
His eyes dropped to Paul’s mouth. He brought a finger up, just under his own nose, as if he were wiping something away.
"Got a little something on your lip, city boy," Rob murmured, dropping a wink.
Paul hastily scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, suddenly terrified of what he might have missed—before his brain finally caught up with the joke.
His new, three-day-old mustache attempt.
He let out a breathless, exasperated laugh, looking up to meet Rob’s grin.
But he was already turned.
Paul stood completely still, watching the army dad’s broad shoulders cut effortlessly through the crowd until he disappeared entirely.
A sudden clench rumbled in his gut—a reminder of exactly what the sergeant had just pumped into him. His eyes swept the vast expanse of the Great Court, hunting for the nearest restroom sign. He needed a stall to empty himself out, and to ditch the gunky napkin in his jeans pocket.
It was only then that the crisp edge of the paper resting against his chest registered.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded map.
It was a standard Central London pocket guide, the kind you grab from a hotel lobby. He flipped it open to the West End grid. A black circle was drawn around a spot tucked down a narrow alleyway in Covent Garden: The Lamb & Flag. Next to it, in sharp, print, was a simple note:
10 PM. Don't be late.
Paul stared at the map. A slow, helpless smile spread across his face as the dull roar of the Great Court washed over him.
Guncle Paul was officially off duty tonight.
END, PART THREE
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