THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB Brad Written by Lady Poetess egiggles at moose-mail.com /~bbp Please do not reproduce on any website without permission. This story has no resemblance to anyone dead or alive. ONE William Bradley Pitt knew he was about to be embroiled in a drama whether he liked it or not at the moment he heard his room mate Jonathan Lee Miller yelled something that sounded obscene to his date, followed by the loud slamming of car door. Jonny had perfected the art of carrying his voice across an open space without raising his voice, and apparently his date was no wimp in that area either. Brad didn't have to put his head outside the window to hear Jonny yell, "Go fuck yourself, you fuckwit maggot brain! It'll be a long cold day before you get to kiss my ass!" A loud thump, which was followed by a strange voice (the date) asking Jonny to cut it out. "Oh cut your own pathetic dick!" was Jonny's predictable reply. Brad let the curtains fall back and shook his head, a reluctant wry smile playing on his lips. Trust Jonny to help him forget - for a moment - his own dumping by the very proper, very dull Rick Ashburgh this afternoon. He was still peeved about that incident, not only because Rick's dear John letter was delivered via email (minus punctuation, and that prick misspelled `occasion'), but Brad had always thought it was he who lowered his standards the most in sleeping with Rick. But Rick was charming - at the surface - and Brad was so homesick and self-absorbed in his new-life-new- job blues, he had forgone common sense and indulged in an affair with a selfish scrub. Brad was again thinking of forgoing men for life. "Bad date?" Brad remarked as Jonny stormed through the door. "Fucking bastard yelled at me for forgetting the rubber. I don't see him stocking up on rubber in his car compartment, so why the fuck should he be pissed when he can't get laid? And I don't even get a decent come for that tedious two hours I listened to him blab about his new car," Jonny said heatedly. "Slut," Brad remarked good-naturedly. "You'll get over it." "So many other fish in the sea," Jonny said, his anger evaporated now that he had let it out. "There's this cute nude model I saw recently, and I swear his cock is the - " "Too much information," Brad cut in. "Besides, Rick gave me a Dear John email today. He finds me too dull." "Oh Brad, that fucked-up butt plug calling you dull is like a whale calling an elephant fat. There's this clay sculptor I know, and I swear his fingers are the best - " "I'm swearing off men for at least this month." "What a waste of mourning period, and over an asshole like Rick," Jonny murmured. "Well, I'm off to play with my vibrator. I need a grade-A explosive orgasm to make up for my lousy night. I have a spare one, want to borrow mine?" "No." Brad grinned. "Thanks for the offer anyway." "You are such a bore," Jonny said, and climbed the stairs to his living area. Brad took the ground floor of this apartment with Alberta, dividing the area in half between them and sharing the bathroom/toilet. Jonny lived upstairs - it was his house, and he rented the lower rooms to Brad and Alberta, aliens to Big Apple, because he claimed that the house was too boring to live in alone, and he found Brad's good nature easy-sobriety and Alberta's always cool demeanor amusing. Jonny was also a former alien, a Brit art dealer and evaluator who made his monies freelancing for established auction houses as well as private collectors. Brad didn't even know people did these sorts of jobs for a living, much less live comfortably off it. Brad's own almost ten years as a lawyer wouldn't allow him to afford this large house of Jonny. Apart from his job, Jonny also displayed a reckless, careless streak more typical of the artists he consorted with. Since both he and Brad shared the same sexuality, Jonny teased Brad mercilessly at the non-happening sex life of the latter. If it wasn't wild, short-term, and reeking of promiscuity, Jonny found it dull and so dreadfully proper. Which was what Brad was. Jonny once remarked that Brad's starchy collar of propriety was so stiff that it was a surprise to discover that Brad was the son of a factory supervisor and a seamstress, not the offspring of pedigree- mad socialites. (Bourgeoisie-wannabe Jonny's greatest regret, alas, was he being an offspring of members of the upper class.) Brad had prayed that he never develop a crush on Jonny the first week he moved into Jonny's place. A silly fear, really, for there was no way Jonny and Brad would suit - both openly acknowledged and laughed over it soon enough. "I see the drama queen has struck again," Alberta Watson, an icy, calm, and handsome woman of forty-five said as she walked into the living room. "God I'm tired," she said, flopping onto the couch. "Why did I move from LA? The glamour, the cheap sex, I must be mad to get away from it all." Brad handed her a glass of iced water. "Bertie, relax. By the way, Jonny made it clear that he has a spare vibrator." "I'll pass. At this point the thought of a blunt object poking between my legs is enough to make me want to scream." Alberta was a lawyer, like Brad, only that unlike Brad, who specialized in criminal law, her niche was marriage. and divorces. She had confessed that her job was like an affair with a married man - it disillusioned her so thoroughly about people yet she couldn't walk away from it as much as she wanted it. She loved her job, and sometimes, seeing a man or woman walking away from a bad marriage with head held high was enough for her to make up for the mad stress and disillusion her job pressed on her. Her optimism appealed to Brad as much as it puzzled him. Bertie had hinted of a really bad marriage and a general lousy track record with men, yet here she was, still holding out for a happy ever after. Brad wanted a happy ever after, but he always believed love was an exaggeration. A relationship was built on mutual trust, friendship, comfort, and compatibility. Love was, he liked to say, lust euphemized to clear one's conscience. Love was the reason people had one-night stands with delusions of permanence, only to break apart when morning came. Love made people believe that they could do more than to sleep with a fellow totally different from them, deluding them that things would be better and everyone would be happy after the wedding party. Ha! Brad's own parents divorced and remarried six times in Brad's thirty-fours of living. A clear testament of two silly so-called adults mistaking sexual attraction for `love' couldn't be found anywhere else. Arnold and Madeline cheated on each other, quarreled, broke up, and then made up and promised to change (ha, ha). Currently they are at yet another honeymoon at Bahamas. Brad gave them two months before the shit hit the ceiling again. As a child, Brad was traumatized by their parents' behavior, and for a long time he blamed himself for his parents' constant bickering and declarations of hatred. As he grew older and discovered sex and puppy love, he slowly learned that it wasn't so simple, his parents' behavior. It was all a case of two self- absorbed twits more in love with the idea of breathless love than in each other. When things get bumpy, both his parents preferred to break it off only to replay the early moments of courtship when passion was fresh and exciting all over again. Brad resented them for making his childhood a living hell, and the clincher was that his parents, while weren't above using him as a pawn in their games, actually had no idea of the damage they inflicted on him. Nowadays Brad preferred to make contact with his parents only via a monthly courtesy postcard. But really, so many dull boring relationships that went nowhere had to be a sign that maybe something was wrong in his life philosophy. "Bertie, do you think I'm dull?" he asked. "Compared to Jonny, oh yes," Bertie said absently, using the remote to switch on the extra-wide TV screen that dominated the living room. "Oh look, male strippers!" "Oh. Deadly dull blond pretty boys." Brad tried to divert Bertie's attention. "You do know you could have described yourself just now, don't you, hon?" Bertie teased. True, his pretty blond face was also a sore point with him. He didn't ask to be born pretty, although he admitted it made his life easier. Guys and gals threw themselves on him and indulged him shamelessly since he turned fourteen and learned to flash those dimples of his. But that came with a price: it was so hard for people to take him seriously. Worse, while in law school, he moonlighted as a model and somehow ended up a wildly popular underwear and jeans model whose face was still peppered on gay porn websites and an occasional wall even today, twelve years later. It was a past that continued to haunt him even in the courtrooms today. "Oh look, Kate Winslet is being interviewed. What a gorgeous woman," Bertie said. She swung both ways, she had told Brad, lesbianism ranking higher than Catholicism in Bertie's books as an antidote to lousy, abusive men. "That buxom chest and those plump thighs, oh my." "Do you think I should try to be a little more. hip?" Brad mused aloud. "Huh? You mean, a little more fun? Won't hurt." Bertie shrugged. "Why not ask Jonny? He's the expert on fun around here." Now asking Jonny was a scary thought, but Brad was feeling a bit melancholic and he could use the distraction. "Okay." "Oh, and do ask Jonny to lend you the vibrator," Bertie said with an evil grin. Brad paused and knocked at the door. "Uh, Jonny, is that vibrator up your ass at the moment? Can you take it out? I'd like to talk to you." The door flew open and Jonny's elfin face emerged, his familiar smug grin always in place. "So you do have a sense of humor," he said. He was wearing a dressing gown with fell open to reveal muscular pectorals and some expanse of a well-shaped washboard stomach. "Come on in." For some reason, red-hot fire exploded in Brad's loins at that statement as well as at Jonny's state of undress. His cock surged to painfully full erection in his pants, and Brad shifted his legs uncomfortably, every senses in his body focused on the obscenely obvious bulge in his pants as well as the way the robes parted to reveal Jonny's left shapely, gracefully muscled thigh. There was definitely nothing under that robe. "What do you want?" Jonny said, closing the door behind Brad, unaware that the sound of the door closing echoed the sense of doom Brad felt in his heart. "Go on, speak up. Is the water heater not working again?" He bent over to pick up a garment, and the low end of the robe hiked up, revealing the lower curves of a pair of taut buttocks. And when Brad realized that Jonny had picked up a pair of erotically designed skimpy thong briefs, he bit back a groan of need. What was wrong with him? Here he was, struck dumb by this inexplicable lust for Jonny, obviously Mr Wrong, and judging by the way that wet spot in the inside of his left thigh was spreading on the fabric, he would ejaculate spontaneously if Jonny showed any more skin. "I, uh." Brad couldn't speak. "What do you think?" Jonny pointed at the painting hanging on his wall. His bedroom was actually two rooms, the wall separating them removed, and it functioned as a bedroom as well as art studio and music room. In short a well- moneyed bohemian's pad. "Christopher of Sotheby's gave it to me as a bonus. It's a minor Minuet, nothing in the priceless range, and it's not even Minuet's best work, but it's lovely, isn't it?" Jonny grinned at Brad, his love for art genuine, and raised his glass of red wine to the painting. His robes parted as the sash around his waist loosened slightly at his motion of toasting the painting, and the folds parted all the way down his body in a tantalizing triangle of bared flesh, below the navel, below where Brad could see the start of Jonny's sparse pubic bush. Brad couldn't help it. A rush of heat in his groin burned, and he pressed his thighs together as he collapsed onto a chair. The pressure only triggered the final breaking. He shuddered, and then he was lost. The first pulse of wet, hot explosion of semen preceded the powerful ecstasy of his climax, and he clenched his fists as another spurt burst from him, and another, until he lost focus of the world. "So, what do you want from me? Gosh, you look flushed. Hard day at work?" Jonny asked, casually refastening his robes. "Yeah," Brad said in a soft sigh. He pressed his thighs hard together, hoping the sticky mess in his crotch wouldn't seep down his thighs and embarrass him thoroughly. "Look, I have to go get rid of some wine from my system," Jonny said. "Tell me about it when I come out of the bathroom." Brad dashed out of the room the moment Jonny stepped into his private toilet-cum-bathroom. Fortunately, he managed to clean up and change his pants when Jonny finally came out - a record time, surely, although Jonny pointed out that Brad left his zipper open later. TWO Jonny put down the phone and took a deep breath to steady himself. His mother was on her usual `nobody loves me' mood and his father was still not talking to Jonny ten years after Jonny kicked his closet doors wide open. Coming out was a courageous moment for him, or so he thought. But it was an anticlimax as it only reinforced what he suspected but tried so hard to deny: his parents didn't care for the fact that he was gay more than they latched on another excuse/reason to point out what a worthless son he was. What did he bother calling them every month to say hi? What did he still hope that one day his father would smile at him and actually praise him, and that his mother would be proud to call him her son? Art was his best friend. He couldn't draw for peanuts, but he loved it, and he learned everything he could until he could pursue a career in art. His life was art, passionate art that mirrored life and its myriad emotions. There were times when Jonny could look at a painting and wish he could walk into the picture and live in a world more beautiful and idealistic than this one. And unlike many colleagues in his career, Jonny didn't believe there was anything called bad art, only manufactured ones. The painting he was looking at was definitely manufactured - an ersatz, mundane depiction of a seaside house - but he liked it. The sea was beautifully done and it called to Jonny - come drown in me. "All artists are stupid idealists," he had told his friend and client Dylan McDermott, a fanatic art groupie who also contributed much to Jonny's bank account. "Even the most disillusioned artists create idealized, perfect depictions of the darkest pain and longings. Immaculate arts are always extremely black or white, starkly bitter or beautifully tranquil." And Brad Pitt didn't know it, but he was also a work of art. A bland canvas of uninteresting beauty just waiting to be tampered. Jonny was no artist, but he had the soul of one: when Brad asked him on tips to be `interesting', Jonny was bored enough and intrigued enough to embark on this project. Jonny's friends and Brad's friends traveled the same circles. It wasn't coincidental - Brad was a new tentative associate partner to the law firm McDermott & Germann (or Germann & McDermott, depending on which partner you were asking), and Dylan McDermott and his sculptor live-in boyfriend linked Jonny's world with Brad's. It was Dylan who suggested that Brad rented Jonny's loft. Jonny's single, desperate arty acquaintances and friends were mad about Brad, a man so starkly pretty in his pretty-boy handsome, golden looks that he put the sun to shame. But Jonny wasn't affected at all. Brad was just that - pretty and little else, an uninteresting and bland white bread guy who blanched at the suggestion of borrowing Jonny's large assortment of sex toys. Brad was also a rabid monogamist, going out with dull, boring boyfriends one at a time for an unbelievably (to Jonny) long period of time before parting friends (unbelievable!). Brad probably fucked like a timid rabbit, maybe he and his partner talked about weather as foreplay. Now, Jonny is going to experiment on Brad, to see if he could turn the man into some interesting specimen. He wanted to crack his knuckles in anticipation as he waited for Brad to emerge from the hair salon. Jonny had told Mario Lopez, the popular barber who could do wonder with hairstyles as well as ice blends and smoothies, to do his worst. First to go had to be Brad's perfect prettiness. Brad came out looking as if he had just been tortured by a barrage of barbaric gladiators ten minutes later, his face clearly reflecting his horror. Just as he would, for his almost shoulder- length immaculately groomed preppie-lawyer hair was, err, butchered by Mario. Maybe not butchered, for Mario was too much an artist himself to create beautiful chaos. Brad's hair was now much shorter, ending just a fraction where his ear lobes were level at, closely shaved to the skin towards the end. Brad's hair at the front were charmingly short and spiky strands flew askew in the wind in beautiful disarray. "My hair!" Brad started to bluster. Jonny loosened the man's tie. Perfect - Brad looked like a roguish, carefree rogue masquerading as a yuppie. The short hair only allowed his dimples to shine and the well-formed cheekbones to stand out. And Brad askew and his face flustered were more devastatingly attractive than the perfect Ken doll Brad was before. Which was why it was natural for Jonny to felt his breath and heartbeat quicken at the sight, and even more natural for blood to rush to his cock. "Remove the tie," Jonny said. "Get rid of the tie," he reiterated. "And loosen the first button after the collar button." "But I have to go back to the office," Brad said testily. "Do it!" Jonny barked, his lust overriding his common sense. He wanted to see, he must see. Brad sighed and maybe even smiled as he forcefully tugged his tie off and loosened his shirt, revealing taut, golden bronzed chest. Hmm, was Brad tanned everywhere? Jonny wanted to find out now, his impulsive lust urging him on. In fact, he wanted to leap across the table separating them and proceed to sexually assault that man. How would Brad like the idea of Jonny sitting astride that man's lap and riding that man's cock in full view of the public right here right now? "Thank you," Jonny said a little breathlessly. He calmly tipped his coffee cup. "Oops." "Fuck! I have to meet a client in my office at three." "It's only one. I'm sure there's a spare pair of pants at this tailor's I know." Jonny smiled his most angelic. "Want me to show you where it is?" For twenty bucks, Marie Soleuil would let Jonny step into the storeroom behind the changing room, and for a hundred, she would forget that Jonny could look down from an opening near the changing room's ceiling into the room. Jonny hence stood against the wall, on the ladder, looking down as Brad tried on several pair of trousers. Another hundred bucks had Marie passing on trousers with the wrong sizes to Brad. There was something madly arousing at the sight of clean white shirttails hanging over naked taut buttocks. Brad was a man who didn't believe in underwear, it seemed, as there were no boxers or briefs in sight. Just smooth pale buttocks, a seductive triangle of tan-less skin, and a promisingly thick shaft ending just above low hanging balls. Brad turned, and in his exasperation as he called for yet another pair of pants that wouldn't fit, the lower button of his shirt had fallen loose to expose a surprisingly thick triangle of crotch fur that tapered slowly from a hairy trail from his navel. Jonny's head was slowly getting dizzy from the blood leaving his system to his unruly cock, and his buttocks were clenched hard as he savored Brad's perfect body. God, as he pressed his cock against the wall and pumped his hips, who would've thought his boring tenant was this fucking fuckable? He couldn't fight it. His hands ripped at his zipper and soon his semen splattered onto the wall in thick pulses. Jonny bent over in his pleasure, and while the orgasm was enough to sate him - for now - he was also disappointed deeply that his cock was fucking only his own fist, and his anus was clenching on air. Soon, he promised himself. Soon, he would have Brad. THREE Brad looked at the crowd around him in bewilderment. He felt out of place in this art festival event. A week into Jonny's indoctrination of Brad in the art of being cool, Brad had acquired a new wardrobe, a new hairstyle, and a new found passion for Broadway (the only thing Jonny succeeded in introducing to him). He still couldn't bring himself to read the self-indulgent ramblings passed off as quality literature according to Jonny, and he would throw up if he spent another hour in Jonny's circle of self-indulgent deluded philosopher-wannabe friends. "I want you to introduce me to what's cool. Not to change my life into something that's not me," Brad had told the sullen Jonny gently but firmly. "Just tell me what are on the menu and let me do my choosing, okay?" He had brought Alberta with him, serious sober Alberta, to help him feel more control of himself in this alien environment of passionate, eccentric artists and performers. Jonny had cruelly dumped him and Alberta here and told them he had something to discuss with some important art scene players. "Go mingle awhile, I'll be back ASAP to introduce you to people." Brad didn't know where to start in his mingling, and judging from Alberta's wide-eyed bewilderment, she didn't either. They stood in a corner, like penguins in Las Vegas, entirely out of place. "Hey, hey, hey handsome, love that hairstyle!" came a sultry female voice. A very striking young woman in her twenties stepped into view. Striking, because she was wearing black eyeliners, lipstick, and pure black braided hair extensions. "Hi to you too," she said to Alberta. "I'm Eliza." "Don't scare them honey." Ethan Hawke, crazy playwright who recently published a slim novel about love, lust, death, and what rot that bowled almost every snobby critic in New York over. Needless to say, Brad thought the book was rubbish. "This is Eliza Dushku, she does tattoo in her days and performs virtual art in her nights. She dances, if you want to be mundane." For Alberta, he said, "I'm Ethan Hawke." "Ah. You wrote that book," Bertie said politely. "Unfortunately, yes." Ethan winced, genuinely embarrassed by the book. "Actually, I never wanted to publish it. It's a personal work of mine, about me and my - what am I saying? Come on, let me help you blend in. Liz, take Brad's hand, and now, Alberta, take my hand. Have you met David Duchovny and his dear wife Gillian? Two nicest NYU professors until night falls and someone puts Sondheim on the radio." Ethan had repeatedly reiterated his disgust over the critical acclaim Jonathan Larson's Rent had received. His sore points were the fact that the main couple was straight and worse, self- absorbed boring breeders. The most interesting couple was Collins and Angel, but who got the limelight? A boring and whiny pair of lesbians who wouldn't threaten the security of male critics and theatergoers (ooh, lesbian, kinky, kinky) and a straight couple of morons. Bah! Brad listened politely and without paying any actual attention. Ethan was pissed because the organizers had ignored his protest over tonight's Larson Appreciation Night (Ethan wanted Sondheim instead of Larson). He found his eyes scanning the crowd for Jonny, where was Jonny? He found himself standing in a crowd, Alberta beside him, waiting for a show to start. Ethan had gone as suddenly as he appeared, and Brad felt lost in the crowd. Then the room darkened somewhat and there was a wild roar from the audience when the stage curtains parted. Eliza, Brad thought stupidly. The drums kicked-start the music, and Eliza gave a loud, sultry "Ooh oh ooh woah-oh!" before launching into a tune Brad recalled was called Out Tonight from the musical Rent. Brad blinked when Eliza winked at his direction, then stared stupidly when Eliza playfully threw her denim jacket at Brad. "She's amazing," Alberta whispered. Brad looked, really looked at the stage instead of hunting for Jonny, and he had to agree. Eliza played the dangerous slut very well, as she purred and sashayed her way through the song. She sang excellently, but she radiated also enough sex heat to keep the audience entranced. When she purred that she was the sexiest feline on Avenue B and that men were lucky to have her around, she made that the truth. Brad turned to tell Alberta that yes, she was right, only to see his friend's face. Oh Alberta, he thought, watching that woman's face, an expression of a sensible woman slowly being seduced despite herself, what have you done? He needed to get Alberta out of here. As he scanned the crowd, lost, his eyes caught sight of Jonny and his own heart stopped beating. He gave an anguished moan, not knowing it was his own moan, when he saw Jonny laughing with a stranger. A handsome, magnetic stranger whose muscular build stretched his fine shirt, a hunk who radiated sex from his bulging biceps to his tight jeans. And Jon placed his hand on that man's arm and laughed. Alberta watched Eliza, lost in the spell the latter wove with lethal seductiveness. Brad felt his own heart contort in agony at the thought of Jonny with another man, and realized maybe he and Alberta weren't as smart as they thought they were. Fools, fools all of them. "You do know that Brad is watching you like a hawk?" Vin said. Jonny couldn't suppress a shiver of pleasure those words brought him. He shrugged, however, trying to be nonchalant. Vin would tease him mercilessly if the man knew. They had once had a very mad affair together, until one day the lust just fizzled out and both parted ways while remaining best of friends. Both had a playful competition on, however, to see which sucker between them would bite the commitment bug sooner. "He's not my type," Jonny said. "That hasn't stopped you before." "That was before AIDS, Vin," Jonny said. "We can't go back to our old ways. Nowadays I'm more picky." "Thirty's a good age to be picky." "Yeah. Somehow the thought of fucking around at fifty seemed pathetic now than when I thought about it at twenty. I'm aging faster than I'd liked." "Maybe you're just lonely." Jonny laughed. "Oh Vin, why are we talking like two stodgy old queens in a party like this?" Vin grinned in reply. "Don't mind if I make a move on Brad?" he asked, changing the subject. Jonny realized he minded very much indeed. Damn. "Not until I'm done with him," he said. At Vin's look, he clarified, "He wanted to be cool. I'm cool. What better way to be cool than to fuck a cool dude, right?" "You are sick," Vin said. "You know that, man? Sick." "You are wonderful. Just wonderful," Alberta gushed. Eliza looked at her as if she didn't know what to make of this older woman gushing at her like a star-struck fan. "Umm, thanks." Brad hissed at Jonny, "Get Bertie out of here. She's going to get hurt." Jonny only shrugged and Brad wanted to shake that man. "Eliza is a Rent freak. She wouldn't play playing Pookie to Bertie's Joanne. Besides, is being hurt that awful? Sometimes the temporary bliss is worth it, because you never know when you will sample it again." "Is that how it is with your lovers?" Brad asked. "Don't judge me, Brad. Not until you have any idea what I am talking about." "What are you talking about?" Brad demanded. Jonny walked away from the crowded room. Brad followed. "You and your dull, fucking proper lovers, that's what I'm talking about." Brad flushed darkly. "At least I'm not used and discarded like soiled toilet paper." "Fuck you!" "Don't tempt me." They were alone in the car park now. And at that last sentence, both realized at once the intimacy of their solitude as well as the innuendo in their last exchange. "I'm sorry," Jonny said at last. "I get pissed when people see me like some slut. Who's to say I'm not happy?" "I'm sorry," Brad said. "And I get pissed when people see me as a bore. I like my life safe, who's to say I'm not happy?" Jonny leaned back against a car. "Are you?" he couldn't help asking. "No," Brad confessed. "I'm bored," he said, grinning when he realized the idiocy of his inadvertent pun. "Sometimes I wonder how it is like to play it fast and dangerous." "The grass is always greener at the other side," Jonny murmured. Maybe it was unconscious on both their part, but Brad placed one hand beside Jonny and leaned over the man. "You too?" Brad asked quietly. "Only when you get me very drunk, I'll say yes," Jonny told him. And maybe by instinct, his fingers toyed with Brad's collar, tugging at the fabric playfully. "You're probably not what I need." "I can be very good in bed," Brad said in a low purr, and it was definitely instinct and not conscious action that had him lowering his head until his lips were grazing against Jonny's. "Is that so?" Jonny whispered, his words a challenge. Brad's answer was to kiss the man hard. FOUR "I don't think this is a good idea," Brad said two hours later. "Scared?" Jonny taunted him. Brad couldn't see the man's face. He couldn't see - he was blindfolded with a black cloth that wouldn't let any light through. Likewise, he was entirely naked, his arms handcuffed and legs tied with thick ropes to each of the four bedposts of Jonny's specially designed bed. Blinded, he could only squirm in fear and arousal at the feel of velvet sheets burning his back and buttocks, the smell of his own fear and Jonny's cologne and warm skin, and the throb of his erection against his stomach. His cock oozing slippery droplets of fluid, cold fluid on his feverish skin, was also driving him mad. He thrust his hips up vainly, only to feel his bonds tightening around his wrists and ankles painfully. "Yeah," he whispered. "I'm scared." "Good." Jonny's warm breath was on his lips. Brad groaned, and his tongue snaked out as far as he could, to taste Jonny's lips. He only got a clumsy swipe, then Jonny was gone. Then Jonny touched him - a maddeningly brief touch of finger or lips on his neck, his nipples, his lips, his thighs, everywhere in no predictable order. Each time too brief, too brief until Brad was struggling with his bonds, twisting his body so that he could touch Jonny in any way. Then something cold and blunt pressed against his quivering anal pucker. Brad cried out as it penetrated slowly. "Sssh," Jonny whispered. "Relax." Was it a dildo? Brad wasn't entirely certain, but he welcomed the penetration of his burning anus. He raised his thigh as high as he could, but Jonny only let the penetration stop midway. At the same time as Brad screamed in frustration, the tangy fragrant of Jonny's sex wafted over Brad. And his mouth watered even as his tongue lapped wildly in the open air, until - yes, he tasted the spice of Jonny's inner thighs. He lifted his head, letting his tongue lick at the skin, alternatively suckling the tender flesh with his lips. Jonny moaned, lowering himself, until Brad's mouth found that tingling, painfully aching ring of muscles guarding his asshole. Then Brad was merciless, his lips latching on Jonny's nether lips like a hook grip, and that rough, clever tongue pushed up Jonny's inside. He pushed himself down, roughly jamming his hairy anal gash against Brad's wildly lapping and sucking mouth, grinding his hips in a wild bucking rhythm. That tongue prodded him, in and out, slow and fast, like a cock, all the while stopping to suck vociferously until Jonny felt as if his insides were being sucked inside out. No more, or he would lose control. He let Brad eat him a second longer, then he - with great reluctance - lifted himself off. Brad shouted then his protest - "Fuck you Jonny, please, let me have you, please!" - punctuated with wild frantic stabs of his tongue as he searched vainly for Jonny. Removing the vibrator with a rough pull, Jonny replaced that toy with his own throbbing cock. Brad shuddered, every muscle in his body in contorted pleasure, as he willingly lifted his hips for Jonny's penetration, only to howl in frustration when he realized that cock was the only contact he would have of Jonny. Jonny didn't touch Brad in any other way, penetrating Brad only midway so that their thighs never touched, until Brad though he would go mad in unfulfilled ache. And the merciless Jonny kept doing that, pumping Brad hard but never fully, never touching Brad. He kept pumping even when he discharged his heated semen up Brad's quivering orifice for the first time, his cock still hard as a rock, and he kept pumping and pumping until Brad was screaming in need as well as begging incoherently for Jonny to please give him release. Then, after one last discharge of seminal fluids, Jonny freed Brad. Jonny laughed when Brad, wildly growling and promising retribution, pounced on him. The brutal sodomy that followed only made Jonny howl with pleasure/pain. He cruelly bruised Brad's buttocks with his clawing fingers as he urged Brad to fuck him harder, harder, harder damn it, harder until their pelvic bones banged with a painful crack at each deep thrust of Brad's cock. "Yes, fuck me, oh God, you motherfucking son of a bitch, fuck me!" Jonny screamed, throwing his head back in pleasure of Brad's brutal ravaging. His anus was being torn apart and every muscle of his as well as his senses were being pushed towards breaking limit. His fingers pushed Brad's head down for a savage kiss. Finally, Brad couldn't hold back. He shuddered, groaning like a dying man as his long-punished cock exploded its climax. His relentless ejaculation spewed forth, vainly trying to cool both Brad's heated cock and Jonny's blistered anus. "Is that all?" Jonny finally asked, his voice scornful (impressive considering his state of nerves) when they finally broke their kiss. He rubbed his thighs pleasurably against Brad's sweat-soaked ones, sighing as he felt Brad's copious ejaculation soaking down their still joined bodies. Brad answered with a growl and a hard thrust of his fast re- hardening cock. And this Jonny was the one who screamed for mercy. Brad bit back his groan when Jonny finally removed his nipple clamps. Not that he needed to, he was gagged, but even two weeks of punishing sex at Jonny's hands, he still sometimes felt afraid of that man. And he found the fear arousing. He twitched his hips, hoping that Jonny would feel Brad's still hard cock pressing against the man's stomach and had mercy to let Brad have another go at fucking Jonny. Yesterday, Jonny had asked Brad for a lift to the nearest 7-11 store while Brad was about to drive to work. They ended up fucking in the car right outside the store, the driver's seat pushed back and Brad looking up, dazed, as Jonny rode his cock hard like a seasoned rodeo. There was an embarrassing wet stain at Brad's crotch and Brad had to sit down until his pants dried. The other day at a baseball match, Brad actually fucked Jonny right there in the audience, an experience Brad still couldn't believe. Jonny was wearing bagging Bermuda shorts that Brad pushed easily down to the middle of Jonny's hips, and Brad unzipped his jeans. Jonny's long shirt that covered his bared buttocks was pushed up until Brad was fully embedded in that man, and as the New York Yankees scored a home run, Brad and Jonny cheered with extra enthusiasm boosted by the scorching jetting of Brad's cock juices up Jonny's delicious ass. Brad was still stunned that they got away with that. He was thirty-four, older than Jonny, but hell, when it came to sex, he was definitely the child here. Jonny taught him so much in the two weeks that Brad was frequently afraid that he would die of pleasure. It was frightening, this rush of unspeakable pleasure Jonny easily drew from their bodies. More frightening, however, was the thought that maybe, perhaps, Brad wanted these two weeks to last forever. FIVE By the third week, their wills were close to snapping. "You keep distancing yourself from me," Brad snapped in his frustration and anger the end of the third week, throwing the bag of groceries they'd bought together (right after they fucked in the cubicle in the gent's, with Jonny using an imported giant banana most creatively) onto the table with a careless and hard crash. "What do you think this is? An Oprah confess-all session? What do you want me to tell you?" Jonny snapped back. Brad wanted to tell Jonny that he hated this - he felt used. He wanted. something. Raking his fingers through his hair in hapless frustration, he wanted to argue, to shout, and to yell. But he knew that this would only inflame them and they would end up fucking noisily and brutally on the floor (or table, or bed, or anywhere and everywhere). Watching Jonny stormed to his room upstairs, Brad stared at where the man had stormed off, unable to understand his own confusing feelings. The door closed, and Brad saw Alberta return from her own day at the office. "What?" she asked. "How's you and Eliza?" Bertie sighed and sat down on her usual chair. "Good," she said, although her bitter smile said otherwise. "How's you and the drama queen?" "Good," Brad said through gritted teeth. "Eliza's bright, fun, crazy," Alberta said softly. Her eyes took on a faraway glaze. "We have never even kissed. I don't dare to tell her I'm slowly crashing down to earth because of her. I just sit there and watch her laugh, talk, sing." "Jonny's bright too, fun, and crazy. Reckless, wild, and doesn't care if I can't catch up with him," Brad said. "He's all wrong for me, and I tell myself it's just me at the moment addicted to the way he -" "Too much information," Bertie cut in. "Anyway, I feel -" "As if the sun shines and the world revolves around this strange infatuation of yours." It was Jonny. He stood at the foot of the stairs. "What are you looking at me like that for? Since we're all in the mood to bitch about love, let's all do it with style." He placed three glasses and a large bottle of champagne. "I hate that moment even as I crave it. The euphoria, the rush." "That feeling as if you can fly when he smiles at you," Brad said softly. "And the way the dead numbness in your soul grows heavier and more painful when she's not there," Bertie said, studying her glass. "I don't believe in love," Brad declared with bravado. "I'm afraid to believe in love." Jonny raised his glass. "I want to believe in love," Alberta said as they performed a toast to whatever. "So, Brad, is that why you're pissed?" Jonny asked. "You got a big case of puppy love for my cock and whips and you don't know if it's love or lust?" "Oh, it's lust. It's how I like talking to you and doing things with you that confuse me. I know when it's lust, and this one is different." "We are so different, we will dump each other and hate each other," Jonny said. "I hate you two," Bertie declared without heat. "I don't want your parents' stupid marriage and your insecurities to haunt us both," Jonny said. "I'll go see a shrink. And I want you to come with me. You have your own insecurities about commitment as well." "Go upstairs and fuck, boys. Leave me in peace," Bertie said, draining another glass miserably. "You'll get your happily-ever-after, Bertie," Jonny told her tenderly. "I love you, you old broad even if you, like Brad , can be boring fusspots." Brad covered his hand over hers. "You okay, Bertie?" "Yeah. You boys go upstairs and make up or something. I'll just watch TV." Jonny placed his hand on Brad's chest and rest his chin on it. "We'll never work." "We're too different," Brad agreed. "So move over and let me walk out of here." Jonny only looked at Brad, his face unreadable. "Push me over. I'm too tired to move." Brad sighed. "I don't want to." "Me neither." "We need to talk." "We need to talk." They said that together simultaneously, and that surprised the both of them into silence for a few seconds. Then Jonny tilted his head and studied Brad. "Fuck it anyway. Nothing tried, nothing gained. And it'll probably be fucking good while it lasts. We'll probably have to buy relationship books and hide all sharp objects in the house." Brad's smile was all agreement. "Nothing tried, nothing gained," he concurred. Alberta Watson didn't hear the doorbell until much, much later. Since she was pretty soused, she didn't pause to wonder who would drop by at eleven in the night. Of course, crazy, reckless Eliza would. No surprise to find her standing at the door. "Hi," Eliza said simply, hugging herself as if in uncertainty. "Hi," Bertie said, calm and poised as always.