THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Russo

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

"Motherfucking son of a bitch!" With callused fingers raking
through his short, neatly-trimmed hair in frustration, the man
uttered more exclamations that had John Martin Willenborg thinking
that a new record had been set in the use of gutter language in a
single sentence. "Fuck!"

"You really should tone down your language," said John, keeping
the tone of his voice friendly because he didn't want to set the
man off. He was also genuinely being friendly. "You can use it
around me because I sure as hell don't mind, but it's not wise to
blow up on TV." John winced at the memory of staring in horror at
the TV screen as his friend called Bernard Shaw of CNN on live TV
a "fucking asshole whose head is shoved so deep past your fucking
rectum that you could see what you ate for breakfast, duckweed!"
after an argument about the importance of education on Wall
Street.

"Sure, I'll fucking tone down my language, even though it'll be a
bitch to - oh, fuck that shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

John bit back a grin. He was from traditional old-school old-money
background, where he was so spoiled since birth that by seventeen,
he was bored with life because he had fucked, drank, ate, abused,
and vomited out anything and everything his money and good looks
could get him. Ever since knowing Christopher Russo, however, he
had learned enough ways to swear that would drive his mother
crazy. That was the beauty of being from old money: for example,
John could take the cock of his father's married business
associate up his ass when he was fifteen, not that John would ever
admit to that if people asked him about it, and people wouldn't
bat an eyelid as long as John was discreet, but swearing in
public, on the other hand, was a sign of uncouth manners. But
Russo was different: he had only a high school diploma but by
thirty-one, he had hustled his way into making his first million
dollars when he was twenty-four and now he was one of the most
aggressive stock brokers in the country.

Unfortunately, Russo's tenacity came without tact. He had no sense
of decorum or propriety. It was common to see him showing up for a
meeting in a sports T-shirt and khaki knee-length shorts that
revealed that permanently tattooed smiley face on his right knee.
People tolerated him because he made them a shit load of money.
But Russo's firm was expanding beyond his expectations. With a man
of his exceptional track record and almost clairvoyant-like
ability in predicting the stock market, he was becoming more and
more successful and his portfolio kept increasing whether he liked
it or not. While his clients found him delightfully crass and
uncouth - "eccentric" was how they euphemistically described him -
the media, however, didn't. And if Russo didn't behave, his PR
would get a beating so badly in a manner that even his reputation
as a brilliant financial guru couldn't overcome. Not when the
media made sure that there was a campaign to tar his reputation
and made his contacts and clients embarrassed to be publicly
connected to him, and this was dangerously close to happening if
Russo kept offending respected economists and powerful people in
the media. John knew Russo rarely meant to offend. It was just
that old hustler from Long Island with the thick accent to show
for it didn't understand why he couldn't be upfront and say what
he thought about matters the way he always did. Because he was now
playing in John's world, Russo was finding it very hard to adapt.

And John, having invested heavily in Russo's boiler room, now had
to make sure that he could help Russo and therefore protect his
own investments.

"Maybe you can hear my suggestion," John said to Russo.

Russo eyed John suspiciously. John didn't take offense - Russo
always viewed people of privilege like John in a manner someone
would put on when confronted with something that he or she just
couldn't fathom.

"You need someone to help you with your PR," said John.

"Do I fucking look like I need a charm school?"

"Yes you do," John said bluntly. "You need someone educated and
cute to do your talking for you if you refuse to tamper your
aggressiveness. Right now half of Wall Street hates your guts and
the other half is scared of even talking over the phone with you.
You're smart. You know what the media is portraying you as. If
this goes on, everyone would start thinking that you are
borderline insane and stop doing business with you."

"Is it because I don't have a college degree?"

John closed his eyes, an instinctive reaction to the raw hurt in
Russo's quiet questioning. "Life isn't fair, Russo," said John. He
didn't know what else to say. "We can all talk about giving street-
smart people their due, but if you behave like a street-smart
person, many people won't give you your due. You're not a lawyer
like Rob Mariano who used people's perception of him as a dumb
Bostonian lughead to catch his opponents by surprise in court. You
are a financial consultant. You need to work with people."

"Shit." But Russo was at least not swearing angrily like he was a
few minutes ago so John looked at the man hopefully. Russo rested
his forehead against the wall and remained silent for a few
seconds, no doubt thinking over the issue from every conceivable
angle like he always did. With a furious roar that startled John,
Russo slammed his fist against the wall. But when he turned to
speak to John, he was calm - too calm. "If I don't agree, the
other shareholders will not be amused," he said.

John nodded at Russo's unasked question. "They won't be as
understanding as I am, Russo. If you give me a good answer that I
can give them to calm their fears, I can hold them at bay. But I
need a good answer, Russo, and telling them to fuck off isn't good
enough."

Russo chuckled without humor. "I will have to ask only one man to
help me then. Only one man I can trust because I know he is as
good as me." His expression was impassive and his voice a dull
monotone as he stared at his bruised fist. "You have no idea how
this fucking idea of yours made me mad, Borg, but yeah, you're
right. I'm a street hustler who knew how to make money and that's
what they will think of me until I pretty up and speak sweetly
like a fucking blue blood, no offense to you, of course."

"No offense taken, Russo, so don't worry about that."

"I don't like him. He doesn't like me. No, he hates my guts. But
there is no one smarter than he is. He's good. And best of all, he
comes from a respectable background. He speaks pretty, looks
pretty, and probably fucks pretty as well."

"Who is this person, Russo?" asked John.

"Wesley Abraham Moss. Even that name sounds fucking pretty,
doesn't it?" Russo gazed outside the window, seeing something in
the distant that only he could see. "I'll just have to swallow my
pride and let him have at it."




TWO

Wes Moss was tired to the bone as he walked into his office and
placed the stack of papers he had to grade on the table. How did
it happen that he grew to entertain this trepidation when he had
to walk into this office that he once loved? He built this company
from his blood and sweat but now, analyzing and helping people
turn their savings into means to make their dreams come true had
become just that, his fucking job, while he had a more fulfilling
time working for free for Rotary International, HERO, and a few
more charities and lecturing at Emory.

The newspaper he had left earlier on the table reminded him one of
the reasons for his disillusionment with his job. He had circled
the article in the gossip column with a red pen and, in a rare
loss of temper, stabbed a hole through the page. There, in all its
black and white glory, was his associate's latest embarrassing
debacle reported in a snide manner that made Wes cringe. What the
hell was Todd Everett thinking to actually get that thankfully
unnamed woman to give him a blow job in a fucking private function
thrown by the mayor, of all the fucking events he could get a blow
job at? No, Todd wasn't thinking, that was the problem.

"You are trying to cut me off."

Wes jumped at the unexpected voice of the man he was, mentally,
kicking the shit out of his ass. Todd, his fashion model handsome
looks twisted in an expression of fury that made him actually
looked ugly, flung the documents Wes had his lawyers put together
six weeks ago that Wes hadn't found the heart to show Todd. Wes
calmly caught the bound documents Todd threw at him and placed
them on the table. "You expect me to do anything less?" he asked
calmly as he crossed his arms and watched Todd. That was how he
dealt with Todd when Todd plunged deeper into his downward spiral
of sex, alcohol, and drugs - he behaved like a disapproving parent
and Todd always fell under his glare even as he hated Wes more.
Wes picked up the newspaper and, mirroring Todd's gesture, threw
the papers to Todd. Unlike Wes, Todd didn't try to catch the
papers and instead let them hit his chest. "This should answer
your question," said Wes simply. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have
some work to do."

"I made this place as much as you!" Todd snarled. "You can't deny
that."

"No, I can't. We started this place together." That hurt Wes more
than the collapse of their partnership, the collapse of their
friendship. "But you're doing more than your share in destroying
it." And with that, Wes' control snapped and all his frustrations
leaked before he could control himself. "The clients wouldn't
trust us if one of the firm partners is an alcoholic who indulged
in drunken public displays of embarrassing behavior."

"No, we can't have that," Todd said in a sneering tone that made
his apparent agreement more of a cutting insult.

"I'm too tired to fight," said Wes. "Please, can we do this on
another day?"

Todd opened his mouth but apparently he thought better of it. He
instead shut his mouth and stormed out of the door. Wes knew he
wouldn't be hearing the last of this matter though. He wished Todd
would apply his tenacity to their firm. Once, Todd did. But Todd
just changed overnight a few years ago and Wes didn't recognize
the man that Todd was now.

His temper simmered down to a tolerable level when he began
reading through his students' papers. This time around, his
students were decent in the sense that there were only a few of
them who gave him headaches. In fact, after giving his third "B+"
in a row, he was actually feeling like his old self again. Perhaps
it was time that he became a full-time teacher.

"It must always happen," Wes grumbled to himself when his mobile
beside his right elbow rang. "Let this be someone nice. Tell me
the IRS has decided to exempt me from two years of taxation."

It was worse.

"Hey, Wes! Russo here! How are you, man?"



"Hey, thanks for seeing me. You saved my ass," Russo said as he
tried not to tap his fingers nervously on the tabletop. There was
no response from Wes. Russo swallowed the instinctive curse that
was threatening to escape his lips. Wes was as blond as he
remembered, which made him look like a freaking Ken doll. A very
cute Ken doll, Russo admitted reluctantly, but. fuck, why was he
thinking about Wes' looks?

"How exactly did I save your ass, Russo?" Wes finally said.

Wes was always so fucking calm that Russo couldn't stand it. Back
when they were mere pat racks fighting for a share of the pie in
the finance industry, Russo tried his best to push Wes' buttons
but he couldn't find any weakness in Wes' icy cool exterior. On
the other hand, Wes would only need to look at Russo in that
educated blue-blooded way of his, as if he had only disdain for
the foul-mouthed uneducated Russo, and Russo would feel like he
was some piece of shit that Wes stepped on.

"I need your help." It was easier than he thought to say this to
Wes.

"You want me to help you soothe your PR problems."

"Okay, who's the fucker that told?" asked Russo with a scowl.

"Andy Litinsky, who is in some real estate venture with John, told
me. John isn't the kind of person to keeps his secrets to himself.
And of course Andy told me because he wanted my advice on whether
he should pull himself from John's real estate ventures. Just in
case, you understand, you pull John down - and with John, Andy -
with your inability to shut the fuck up."

Russo shouldn't be so amused, but he was. "Wow, you said the fuck
word," he said. He surprised himself to find himself grinning at
Wes. But hell, why not? He now remembered how much he enjoyed
matching wits with Wes back in the old days when they were
rookies. Back before all that shit that came with him being so
successful and people started expecting him to act in a way that
he didn't know how.

"Yeah, I said fuck. Why the fuck not?" said Wes, a challenging
gleam in his eye. "We're all grown-ups now, are we not?"

"I don't know about me being a grown-up." Russo shook his head in
awe. "Damn, Wes, you're still as good as ever with backhanded
shit. I still have never met anyone who can cut the shit down
someone with as little effort as you."

"And you're as insolent as ever," said Wes. "But yes, I'll accept
your proposal of having me buy over your company and taking over
as the CEO. That, I agree, will do wonders for your PR."

"Fuck, in your dreams!" Russo laughed, even though he knew Wes was
egging him to do this. "I'm never selling to you. Remember what I
said to you after we finished punching each other at that amazing
party back in 1999? I'll get you in a hostile takeover, Wes, not
the other way around."

"Strange, but I recall that it was I who said that to you at that
disastrous party," said Wes. "Russo, what exactly do you want me
to do?"

"They call you the gentleman," said Russo. "I want you to teach me
how to be a little nicer so that the media will like me."

"No offense, Russo, but I don't think I can work miracles outside
a portfolio. Why don't I just buy over your GunnAllen firm and
make you the branch manager?"

"Fuck you."

"You really should watch your language."

"Fuck you, asshole."

Wes laughed. Russo paused and watched, fascinated, as he realized
that he had never seen Wes laugh before.

"Okay, I'll help you."

Now Russo was shocked. He never expected Wes to concede so easily.
"You will?" asked he. Damn, why did he always have to feel stupid
when he was with Wes?

"Why?" Wes gave Russo an inscrutable glare that had Russo feeling
a little uncomfortable.

"Because I want something in return, Russo," said Wes. "I will
help you become a gentleman if you will make me laugh at least
once a day."

That was an odd request but Russo figured that it would be easy to
make Wes laugh. How hard could it be? Wes would help him and that
was enough for Russo. "Deal," said he.

"You're seeing anyone at the moment, Wes?"

"No," Russo answered, not seeing any reason to lie. "I don't even
have time for one night stands. It's hard to get the cock hard
when the world seems to be beating down my door, you know?"

"I see that I will have to do something about your lack of brain-
to-mouth filter as well," murmured Wes. "But that's good that
you're single. I hate to inconvenient anyone in your life with our
new arrangement."

"And what arrangement is this? I want you to help me handle
interviews. What do you want from me?"

"I have Fridays free so I want you to take me out on some date. No
sex, Russo, so don't look horrified. I haven't laughed in a while
so. Russo, just show me some cool hangouts that you go to. I'll
try and make it as less painful on you as possible."





THREE

It wasn't the first time that Todd woke up in a strange bed. In
fact, it happened so often in his life that it was a reasonable
assumption that his marriage collapsed due to him waking up with a
stranger that wasn't his wife one times too many. But like his
drinking, he didn't give a damn. If his wife didn't like him
sleeping around with other people, he was better off without her.
Good riddance to her! Todd never truly liked her anyway. He
knocked her up while he was in college and his parents made him
"do the right thing" with her. She took the kids with him too -
good fucking riddance as well, as he couldn't stand them.

No, he couldn't stand them. He didn't miss them. He didn't need
them.

Because he had been through hangovers so often, this particular
hangover didn't truly affect him. He lay on the bed and closed his
eyes, making soft grunts whenever his head throbbed too painfully,
but soon he was feeling steady and ready to go. He got out of the
bed and, ignoring his clothes scattered on the floor, went off to
look for whoever it was that Todd fucked the night before.

Led by his nose, attracted by the fragrance of coffee, he found
himself in a clean kitchen that could actually be accurately
described as "white". And there was a bald but unconventionally
handsome man humming happily as he went about preparing breakfast.
It was then that Todd noticed the world outside the kitchen
window: they were obviously in an apartment and more
significantly, it was still dark outside. What time was it? Todd
looked at the watch on his wrist and groaned. It was just five in
the morning. No wonder he felt tired. He was never a morning
person.

The other man heard Todd and looked up. His smile was so wide and
blindingly beautiful that Todd could only stare at the man for a
few heartbeats, dazzled into silence. The man wasn't handsome the
way Todd was, Todd decided without arrogance (he knew how good-
looking he was), but there was a rough masculine ruggedness that
belied the man's neat and polished appearance. This was one man
who would be more at home at a ranch or an oil rig instead of in a
very neat apartment where everything was in its place.

"You had a great sleep?" The man's voice was exactly like Todd
expected: male and extremely seductive. Todd enjoyed fucking both
men and women but he liked his men to act like men just like he
preferred his women to be feminine in the stereotypical sense.
This man wasn't his usual tastes when it came to d‚cor and
demeanor, but the potent air of masculinity emanating from the
man's muscular physique and the strong, fine face made Todd's
insides melt with desire.

"Yeah, I did." Todd's voice was husky and unsteady from desire.

"Good. I didn't want to leave you asleep on the floor of the
theatre."

"Theatre?" asked Todd stupidly. He really couldn't remember.

The man gave Todd a look of bemusement. "I figured you won't
recall much of last night. You were drunk." He placed a plate of
grilled ham, green lettuce, and tomatoes on the table. As he
prepared another plate of the same, he gave Todd a wry look. "My
name is Bradford. We met last night when you - and a few other
men, I have to admit - took me in that theatre." He named an adult
theatre that was more infamous for being a pick-up joint for gay
men.

"You and me?" asked Todd again. Damn, his brain wouldn't function
when he was so dazzled by Bradford's masculine beauty that all
blood seemed to have flowed from his brain to his cock. He felt
cold moisture dripping onto his toes and realized that his cock
was now fully erect and bobbing in urgency, the slit of his
heavily engorged cock head dripping thick strands of lubricating
fluids onto the floor and on Todd's feet with each swing it made
in sync with Todd's urgent paces.

"You, me, and other men that I've lost count," Bradford murmured
as he watched Todd approach him. And then there was no more time
for words as Bradford hastily unloosed his apron and could only
unfastened his pants before Todd gripped Bradford on the shoulder
with one hand and bent the man over the kitchen top before
thrusting his cock deep up Bradford's unprepared anus.



Russo eyed George Clooney with dislike that he tried very hard to
conceal. He didn't stand for idiots and he never practiced trying
to be nice to people he thought were idiots, but he was trying
hard to remember Wes' advice on how to behave in public,
especially when he was on a panel arguing with George over the
state of the stock market and predictions on future lucrative
investments. There was another man on the panel but he was
obviously unused to aggressive confrontations so he was content to
let Russo and George duke it out while he tried to look cute for
the TV cameras.

George was condescending, with his carefully worded phrases
mocking Russo by implying that Russo was an uneducated buffoon. Or
was he?

"Try not to be so sensitive about your high school diploma,
Russo," Wes had told him. "I don't care that you have only your
high school diploma to boast of when it comes to personal
credentials. I respect you because you have proven yourself that
you are an honest man who knew what he was talking about. No
bullshit, no pretense, all Russo - that's you."

"You respect me?" was all Russo could say to Wes. "I thought you
hated me."

"Do you hate me?" asked Wes.

"No." Russo never hated Wes. He was irritated when Wes outdid him
or was right and Russo was wrong, but during their clashes in Wall
Street, Russo figured that they were tied when it came to who was
right and who was. well, not wrong, but not as right either. "I
think you're a smart guy, Wes, nearly as smart as me," he admitted
generously. "And I think it's great that you have a degree because
you deserved that. And I enjoy matching wits with you."

Wes seemed surprise that Russo would admit such, but he was as
always a calm man who rarely let his emotions show on his face.
"Yeah, we're two of the best people when it comes to money," said
he.

"Damn right we are!" said Russo.

Wes laughed at that, making Russo feel like a superhero for doing
so. In the weeks since they started hanging out, Russo realized
just how little Wes laugh. He realized as well that he didn't like
seeing Wes so melancholic. Wes wasn't a man to confide his
problems to other people but Russo deduced from watching the man
that he wasn't happy with his work. Like Russo hadn't been happy
with his work for a long time now. Who would have expected that
Russo would have something in common with his rival?

Wes then played a copy of Russo's previous and abrasive CNN
interview and proceeded to point out how Russo could have behaved
better. Banter time was over and Russo proceeded to listen as Wes
talked. Over the weeks, Russo realized that he loved watching Wes
talk. He became fascinated by the way Wes' full, lush lips move.
Wes spoke like a classy gentleman that Russo sometimes wished he
was, charismatic yet never condescending. Russo wanted very badly
to kiss those lips.

Where he once thought Wes looked like a typical fair-headed
preppie yuppie, he now found himself thinking about the
aristocratic brows that he wanted to lick with his tongue. He
wanted to feel his fingers running through the fair dusk of hair
on Wes' torso, just as he wanted to see Wes' eyes change color
from their rich hue of blue to that light shade of green whenever
Wes laughed. And when Wes laughed with abandon, he would emit this
rich, unfettered musical laugh that tugged at Russo's heart in a
way that Russo still couldn't fathom. But Russo knew that he
wanted to see Wes laugh, just like he wanted to make Wes smile and
forget whatever it was that made Wes so melancholic. Once, when he
took Wes to the snooker hall and cheered like an idiot when Wes,
who never played before, managed to finally score a point, Wes
threw his head back and laughed. Russo's brain shut down then and
he could only stare at Wes, mesmerized by the way Wes' eyes
crinkled or the way his normally unperturbed face came to life and
even glowed when he was so free with laughter. And he also wanted
to break the heads of everyone else who turned to look at Wes,
wanting to shout at them that Wes was laughing for him and only
him.

"Mr Russo?"

Russo realized that he had been lost in thoughts while the host
was addressing him. Sheepishly, he snapped back to the present and
listened as the host repeated her question.

He wanted to tell George that the man was a fuck head. But he knew
now thanks to Wes' teachings that George was deliberately trying
to bait Russo. "They bait you because you make it so easy for
them," Wes told him patiently one day. "I know you think you're
right, Russo, but you can't always tell people that you are right
and if they don't see things your way, they're idiots."

George would speak civilly with Wes, Russo thought, looking at the
man and trying not to sneer. That was because Wes fit in George's
world. Wes wasn't the man they called mockingly the Hurly Burly
Prince of Wall Street, Wes was educated, intelligent, and. Russo
could hear Wes' voice in his head telling him to snap out of his
usual self-pity about his lack of education. And because it was
Wes' voice, he listened. "I disagree with you, George," he managed
to say with much difficulty to that man. But he would have to
content himself with mentioning the man's name in the same
condescending manner that George used on him. "Maybe I'll explain
why I believe that gold is still a good investment."

At the end of the forty minute panel talk, the host seemed
relieved that Russo said only two times words that had to be
bleeped out instead of the usual bleep marathon Russo's previous
TV appearances always ended up as. George was watching Russo as if
Russo was something he couldn't figure out. There were more phone
calls from audience that Russo could remember, and none of them
called to complain about his language or his attitude, which was a
first. Instead, many people wanted him to elaborate on certain
subjects, when usually people would call him an abrasive asshole
and asked the other people in the panel what they thought about
this and that.

For the first time, Russo felt like he'd done well instead of
feeling angry and vaguely embarrassed when everyone avoided him
after a TV appearance. In fact, people now came up and tentatively
shook his hands. They didn't hug him or joke with him the way they
did with George and the other panel member, but he could
understand that. He would view the relatively well-behaved Russo
with suspicion if he were in their shoes.

But it was a start, and Russo felt like jumping and shouting in
giddy joy as he made his way out of the studio. He owed this to
Wes, he wasn't ashamed to admit that, and he wanted to tell Wes of
this at once. And damned if he couldn't understand why they were
ever enemies. More and more, Russo couldn't imagine not having Wes
in his life.




FOUR

"Shit, shit, shit!" Wes groaned and covered his face with his
hands as they watched Wes' TV appearance over the TV at the bar.
"I must have been totally insane to call George on like that!"

Russo grinned. He couldn't share Wes' dismay because he was
actually pleased as punch. Wes went on TV a few days in a
scheduled panel discussion that also involved George and ended up
snidely throwing George's treatment of Russo in the previous show
to George's face. Wes brought up the fact that he agreed with
Russo about the things Russo brought up in the previous show and
proceeded to argue with George in a manner where one couldn't
directly accuse him of being rude but there was no mistaking the
underlying tension in Wes' always polite and cultured demeanor.
George ended up conceding to Wes - and Russo - and laughed as he
clapped Wes' back as if he enjoyed the sparring with Wes. George
enjoyed a good match of wits, Russo knew that now with clarity,
because George came up to him after Russo's appearance on the show
and shook his hands. George Clooney was alright if he decided that
you were worthy of his respect. Wes didn't have to defend Russo.
But Russo was touched that Wes did. That was why Russo, who took
the trouble to clear his schedule to attend the taping of the
show, came up to Wes after the show and surprised Wes with a kiss.
And Wes shocked Russo by throwing his arms around Russo's waist
and kissed the man back hard.

"Hey, don't do that, man," Russo told Wes now.

Wes shook his head and chuckled as he gestured to the waitress and
asked for another beer. "You, Russo, are a bad influence on me."

Russo couldn't stop the alarm from seizing his heart. "Do you want
me to go?" he asked.

Wes seemed to know that Russo wasn't just talking about this night
out. "I don't think I want you to go."

His hand covered Russo's, and before Russo could calm the
thunderous beating of his heart, Wes lifted Russo's hand to his
lips and slowly, tenderly, pressed his lips to Russo's palm.

"It's up to you, Russo, because if I have my way, I will never ask
you to go," said Wes in a whisper that Russo had to bend his head
closer to the man in order to hear. "I've laughed so much this
week because you made me come alive like no one else can. When we
argue, it's exasperating but damn, I know that we will get
together after that and laugh over our fight. I've never seen
anyone like you Russo, and I don't think I will ever love anyone
else like I have grown to love you these last few weeks."

"I. I." Russo didn't know how to get the words out from the lump
in his throat. He could only look at Wes, his beautiful
aristocratic golden friend, a man who had been a thorn in his
side, his best friend, and now, the man who could love a man like
Russo who was so different from what Wes was used to. "I love you
back," he said eventually when he had to break off his kiss with
Wes to catch his breath.

They returned to Wes' place after their first kiss, only because
Wes' place was nearer and they wanted to waste as little time as
possible before they found a bed to fuck. When Chris took off his
T-shirt, Wes was surprised to see that the man had nipple rings
and he gave them a playful tug, causing Russo to growl in
pleasure. They took turns mounting each other. Both men equally
enjoyed topping and bottoming each other until their assholes
ached from the abuse they received and they brought each other off
again and again with their mouths and hands until it was nearly
dawn and they collapsed in each other's arms in exhaustion.

It was only a few hours later when Russo showed up at Wes' office.
They were supposed to go for lunch together but Wes hadn't gotten
up from his seat when Russo unzipped his trousers and started
thrusting that thick erection between Wes' thighs as they kissed.
Wes' trousers were quickly removed and he had Russo pinned on the
table and riding the man's cock with exuberance when the office
door opened and Todd Everett walked in.

"So this is the bastard you're planning to replace me with?" Todd
sneered.

Russo hopped off the table and made a swing at Todd but Wes
stopped him. That was when Todd punched Russo in the face.

"That's it. I've had enough of you!" Wes snarled and slammed his
fist into Todd's jaw. Todd groaned and collapsed onto the floor.
"Get out of my office. You'll hear from my lawyer, Todd, because
your days as my partner end here."

It was hard to look regal when Wes was clad only in his shirt and
semen was dripping down his thighs, but Russo thought that Wes
looked like a king when he defended Russo like that. He didn't
know who Todd was and didn't care. "Get the fuck out. You heard
him," he told Todd.



Todd Everett screamed through his tears when he pounded on
Bradford's door and realized that the man was not in his
apartment. "Bradford!" he shouted as he slammed his fists against
the door until they bled. He ignored the pain. "Bradford!" he
cried again and again until he couldn't stand the agony in his
heart anymore and collapsed crying onto the floor.

He didn't know how long he lay there crying like a broken child,
he was only aware when strong hands that he instinctively knew as
Bradford's touched him and helped him to his feet. Bradford reeked
of semen and sweat. Todd knew that the man had just returned from
another anonymous gangbang, perhaps at some park this time. "You
okay?" asked Bradford in concern.

Todd couldn't stand that man, not when the man would lose himself
in anonymous group fuck while Todd needed him so desperately.

"You didn't show up or call since that day," Bradford said. "I'm
not expecting you."

Todd wanted to leave. He didn't need anyone. He wanted to tell
Bradford that the man didn't need so many lovers to keep him
satisfied because Todd was more man than anyone could handle. He
wanted to lose himself in Bradford's arms and forget that he was a
fuck-up. But he only ended up sobbing in Bradford's arms.

Bradford held him awkwardly. Finally, he lifted Todd's chin and
looked at the man in the eye. "You can sleep here tonight," he
just said finally and reached for his key.