THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB Sebastian 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. PROLOGUE The isle of Uchilea was officially a province of China, formerly one of the many Portuguese provinces now reverted to Chinese rule. The Chinese government had all but officially disowned this isle, however. Uchileans were pirates, smugglers, and thieves, to every man and woman, and they had outwitted every devious and cruel punishment the law imposed on them. Finally, the Chinese authorities stopped trying to clean the isle of cutthroats, hoping that the islanders would kill each other off in due time with their own violent squabbles. The Dragon Jade Inn was one of the more infamous places in Uchilea. Only people who had a suicide wish or those who had distinguished themselves worthy of respect from the Uchileans dared step foot inside the deceptively small and simple eatery. It was rare enough for one to find strangers in the inn. Rarer still was to find three Caucasians seated in the area generally reserved for the most powerful men in Uchilea. An American, a Brit, and a man of indistinguishable origin - apparently it was equal opportunity day at the Dragon Jade Inn. Not so. The American was no stranger here - he had been here many times, and had clashed and won the admiration of the local triad that they let him free pass, as long as he kept out of their lives. He was clothed in simple loose cotton shirt and jeans and apparently without arms. The Brit was clearly a bumbling dandy, too well clothed in expensive-looking, if worn clothes, complete with black gloves. His golden sun-burnished hair glinted in the sunlight, an oddity among the dark-haired denizens of the inn. This Brit bore the ravages of heavy travels - his once fair face was tanned and freckled from exposure to harsh climates. But it was obvious that he still hadn't mastered entirely the art of survival in this hostile environment. No one but fools would leave his pistol open like that, to be easily snatched by anyone who wanted to start a crossfire. Indeed, the Brit would be dead were not for his companion, the man of indistinguishable origin now asleep on the couch beside the table where the other two men sat. A rat-faced man whose once slender frame was now bulkier with muscles, its agility honed the hard way, and bearing too many scars of wear and tear, he had more than proven his skill when he took out a few locals on his first night here. There were always eyes on these two, waiting for any sign of weakness to show, but so far this rat-faced man had shown none. Should this man fall, the Brit would be easy picking. Toby Stephens, however, was gamely unaware of his danger as he tried to persuade Sebastian Spence, the American, to perform a favor for him. "The last time I bring something back to America, Toby, I almost got lynched at the customs," Sebastian Spence stated. "How am I to know that the statue contained latent archebacterial pathogens?" Toby protested. "But this one is harmless. Just one primitive compass. What harm would it do?" "Okay," Bastian agreed reluctantly. He was heading back to America, anyway. "To Thomas, right?" "Yeah." Toby grinned. "He'd appreciate this compass." "Give me that blasted thing," Bastian said, and accepted the package from Toby. "Word of advice, Toby - get out of here fast. You won't last long without Lea over there." "Oh, we're leaving tonight. There's a case of stigmata I'd like to examine closer in Brazil, and Nic always wanted to see Brazil." Toby looked at his sleeping companion fondly. "If Thomas asks, tell him I'll be back for Christmas to visit him and his crazy boyfriend." Bastian shrugged. "Suit yourself." "Where will you be going after USA?" Toby asked. He, like everyone who was into travel, was in awe with the legendary Sebastian Spence, who was called by the American National Geographic Society the Livingstone of the twenty-first century. "I don't know," Bastian admitted quietly. "I just don't feel like seeing the world anymore. Seen everything." he shrugged once more. "I want to see what it's like in New York." "Your store," Toby offered. Bastian ran a small store catering for worldwide explorer wannabes as well as the casual tourist, packed with maps, books, and traveling necessities as well too many memorabilia from Bastian's travel. His reputation made the store a success not just as a store but also as a reference point for many tourists wanting to travel outside regularly scheduled conventional tourist spots. If you wanted to explore the outskirts of Mongolia, you could drop by to the World Traveler and find out all about it. Bastian's cousin Greg Vaughan ran the store in Bastian's absence, and news were that Greg's business sense single-handedly made the store a success more than Bastian's reputation alone could have. "I want to see Greg." The statement came out of nowhere with such a strong note of yearning that caught Toby by surprise. Bastian grinned sheepishly, perhaps embarrassed for having blurted out this private emotion of his to a mere acquaintance. "I see," Toby said honestly. He did. "The letters we keep exchanging. I can't help." Bastian seemed really at lost for words. "I'm 31 now, and I get really tired of moving around, and maybe it's time I go back and explore my own hometown. I hear New York City is more dangerous than Vientiane after sunset." "And to Greg," Toby concluded for the other man. Bastian hesitated, then grinned defiantly. "And to Greg," he concurred. "I'm going home to him." ONE "There, this is the most comprehensive and accurate modern trail of the Silk Road you can find," Greg Vaughan told the man who asked as he unfurled the map in question on the table. "Complete with annotations by our very own Sebastian Spence." "Eh?" the man, who looked like an accountant - probably was one looking for adventure in his upcoming vacation - asked. "Sebastian Spence, worldwide traveler, geologist, cerographist, and correspondent for almost every travel journals around." Greg couldn't keep the pride out of his voice. He gestured at the trophies, awards, and other prizes Sebastian had won in his life, all proudly displayed at the wall behind him. "He has traveled the Silk Road five times before, and they published his detailed journal in the National Geographic Special in '89." Greg smoothly placed the issue beside the map. "Between these two, you can avoid the dangers that await, such as bandits." "Bandits?" But the accountant was more enthralled than scared. Probably being robbed and worse would be the man's idea of adventure. "Cool." Greg grinned, smelling an easy kill, and moved in. Two hours later and two thousand dollars in the coffer box, Greg whistled as he finally closed the store. It was nine in the evening and he was looking forward to the rest of the night. Tonight, every Tuesday in his life, he would sit down and see to his correspondence with his cousin, the absent Sebastian Spence. It surprised many when they realized that despite Bastian always being off to some foreign corner of the world, he actually managed to keep a pretty regular correspondence with Greg. "We're closed," he said absently at the sound of someone knocking at the door (Greg didn't install a buzzer, preferring instead an old fashioned knocker to give the store an old world feel). "Open up or I will fire you, cousin." The firm bass caused Greg to drop the pile of magazines he was holding. He heard the voice so rarely - the last was over the phone when the same voice wished him a merry new year months ago - but he had every nuance and timber emblazoned in memory. "Bastian, what are you doing here?" Greg exclaimed, quickly unlocking the door. "You never told me you're coming back - " The rest of what he said was lost when Bastian walked up and picked Greg up in his arms, lifting Greg off his feet. Greg was six feet tall and his tennis, squash, and gym rat lifestyle had compacted and honed his musculature so that he wasn't completely a lightweight, but Bastian seemed to have no problem in lifting his cousin bodily off the ground in his own rangy arms. Greg gave a surprised laugh when Bastian swung him around, the latter calling "How's my cousin getting on?" as he teased Greg, a laugh that died when Bastian's mouth missed his lips only by seconds when Greg turned the other way unwittingly. And was that disappointment in the man's eyes? Couldn't be - it was Greg's secret to keep, that he was in love with Sebastian Spence. Oh, not this Bastian, but a fantasy Bastian that Greg recreated from their letters: a dashing, laughing Sebastian Spence that put Indiana Jones to shame in his bravado, dash, and charm. However, it wasn't easy separating fantasy from reality, and Greg was finding it very difficult to do so at this instance. "Why do you come back so early?" Greg managed to ask through the knot of nervousness in his throat as he tried to disentangle himself from Bastian. Fuck, Bastian seemed determined to keep holding him. "You told me you would be trekking the Siberian tundra." "I thought it would be nice to see how you are doing," Bastian said, reluctantly letting Greg free to add the distance between them. "Maybe I'll quit traveling and run this shop." "I'm doing a good job running the store," Greg told him. "You don't have to bother." "But I want to. I'm tired. I think it's time I try living a life more mundane, you know?" "Okay. What is it?" Greg asked suspiciously, placing his hands palms down on the showcase table between them. "You need money for the trip? I am already prepared to send you some tonight, that is, if you have stayed at Uchilea like you told me. Three thousand US dollars could be a good start, right?" "I want to stay here," Bastian said, wanting Greg to understand. "I want to run this store, with you - " At the same time, the door opened, and both eyes turned to the newcomer. "I'm surprised you're still open," a dashing, handsome man said. "I take it our late dinner date is cancelled?" "No," Greg said quickly. He cast Bastian a quick unhappy look. "I'll be right there in a minute, Tony." So much for homecoming, Bastian thought unhappily as he watched TV in the darkened silence of his shop. His shop - not really. He didn't even recognize this shop as his. Greg had changed it into some sort of old world tavern reeking of adventurer cheese. It could have been corny, but the entire shop d‚cor was surprisingly tasteful and reeking of class. It wasn't even overly masculine machismo in nature, although the sleek d‚cor was definitely masculine. It wouldn't put off women wanting to travel, it just told them that this store belonged to the legendary Sebastian Spence, whose taste in d‚cor was only slightly kitschy and all tasteful. Bastian wasn't a tasteful guy. He had lost touch with civilization for so long, he wouldn't know what to decorate a house, much less a shop, tastefully. He was the kind of man who would punch that bastard Tony black and blue even as he snarled and told that bastard to never ever come near Greg again. But Greg would probably hate that. Every while he would look at the antique clock on the wall. Now it was almost twelve. Were Greg and that Tony now getting ready to fuck? He rubbed his face wearily as he bit back a foul curse he'd learned from some Masai tribesmen. It hurt more than he expected to see Greg just walked out like that, with only a "Lock up after me" as a goodbye. He had thought, after all their letters and emails, they were more to each other than this. At least, he had thought - he had dreamed of so many foolish things. He looked at the wooden giraffe at his side. It was a gift from Greg, one that he had received when he was featured on the National Geographic Journal for the first time. The dull glass marble eyes seemed to mock him, and in the first time in years he felt really lost in the world. Greg found him sprawled asleep on the couch in the shop later. He didn't know why he came back to the store, but he had this uneasy suspicion that Bastian didn't really have anywhere to go. And he was right, much to his dismay. The other man was asleep with what seemed like all his earthly possessions around his feet or around him on the couch. And Bastian, asleep, was none less attractive than he was when he was awake. A thick beard was coating his square, beautiful jaw, and his shirt was carelessly unbuttoned, falling open to reveal hard-muscled chest lightly dusted with fine dark hair. The man's finely chiseled face tempted Greg to reach out and trace the fine lines on the man's suntanned face, but he didn't dare. A stray breeze from the opened door behind them sent a paper fluttering towards Greg's feet. He picked it up, and started when he recognized his handwriting - it was a letter Greg wrote to Bastian back in '92 when they were starting out, Bastian in his maiden voyage to Paraguay and Greg opening the door of the World Traveler for the first time. Greg had wrote some mawkish nonsense to Bastian about Bastian's having to keep strong after the death of Mrs Spence to cancer. Greg didn't know Bastian kept the letter. And from the heavy fold and wear on the paper, strung together by cellophane tapes, Bastian had to have read and reread the letter. There were more, scattered around Bastian. If it seemed an act of carelessness to have these letters strewn around, it could be explained by the way an ornate mahogany box fell open in the man's sleep, strewing its contents around. Touched, Greg had to bend down to pick those letters. He never knew - he thought he was the only one who kept their correspondences in a box for safekeeping. "Remember when we chatted over that - what do you call it, mIRC? - last year?" Sebastian's quiet voice cut the silence of the night like a knife. "I always wanted to ask you if you have somehow kept a copy of what we talked about." "I have," Greg answered. "Bastian, I - " "I'm sorry. I came back thinking that we mean something to each other," Bastian cut in gently, moving to help Greg pick up the letters. In doing so, their hands touched briefly, too briefly before Greg quickly retreated his hands. "You and Tony." "Me and Tony and his boyfriend Ryan." Greg laughed softly at Bastian's face. "I went to dinner with the two of them. Ryan's an artist, and he's helping me work on a coffee table book." "Oh?" Bastian cocked a brow questioningly. "At first I wanted to do a picture book using all the photos you sent me, a book about you and your travels. But I realize you may not want the world to see them, maybe they're personal. So I decided to do something else. A comic-like book about you and your exploits the way you told me. Lies and all." Greg smiled mischievously. "I never lie," Bastian said in mock outrage. "I never exaggerate my travels." "I know. And sometimes I envy you. You see the world." Greg sighed and made to stand up. "And I've come back for you," Bastian said. "No, tell me you're not saying what I think you are saying," Greg said instead. "Three months ago, when I vanished without a word?" "Yeah. I thought you were dead," Greg said. "I wrote so many letters to your last address there. I was going mad because you had no email and I had no idea where you really are." "I was in the hospital. I had no idea how but I went down with malaria, and they discovered too late that I had a violent allergy to quinine. But forget that - what I want to say is that at that time, reading your long, lengthy scolding letters, I realized that you were the only person who cared whether I lived or died. I knew then why I always keep your letters and printed emails and reread them again and again - these give me strength because you care." Sebastian took Greg's unresisting hands in his and let his lips graze the man's knuckles. "You are there when I needed you. And I am here hoping I can be the man you want me to be, Greg. I want to make you happy the way you make me." "I can't do this," Greg said quietly. But his hands stayed in Sebastian's grip. "Why? You know all my fears and insecurities, and I know yours. That's a good basis for a relationship, right? We know each other inside out?" Panic seized Sebastian as he tried to say the right things to make Greg say yes. "You don't have anyone else right now, right?" he asked, pleaded actually for Greg to deny that. "I am in love with you. No wait, let me speak. I'm in love with this fantasy I created from your letters. A dashing adventurer who will sweep me off my feet. But that's fantasy, Bastian. And it's best left that way." "Because your father left your mother, and you think I will do the same to you?" Bastian asked. How he knew Greg so well. "You always do. And I never like goodbyes. You will want to leave someday for something more exciting," Greg told him flatly. "Don't ask me to even try, Bastian. I can't bear the pain." "So let's just be friends?" Bastian asked mockingly. "Yeah," Greg told him, not biting the bait. "I don't accept this," Bastian said mulishly. "I won't give up." "You fell in love with a fantasy, Bastian, just like me. I am not who you think I am. Not some Florence Nightingale figure who will soothe your pains like a mother, okay? Please let go of my hands." "No," Bastian said stubbornly. "Let go," Greg said again, hoping his knees wouldn't buckle and his strength wouldn't give way. He was so tempted, so tempted to say yes in the heat of Bastian's yearning looks at him, and the devastating beauty of the man in dim light. His hands itched to touch the man's bare chest, to kiss those dark, flat nipples, and to rub his aching cock all over the man's naked skin of his thighs and stomach. Bastian growled, and his hands tightened their hold on Greg for a second - and then he let go. "You have anywhere to stay?" Greg asked quietly. "No. I'll get a motel room somewhere," Bastian answered. "Look, don't worry about me, Greg. Just get out and forget I ever said those fucking things to you." Greg doubted he could forget. Maybe when he was too old and his memory went in the unimaginable future. But staying here would serve no purpose. He hesitated, and scribbled down his address at the memo pad at the wall before he could regret it. "Here's my address and phone number. Call me if you need anything. I'll see you here tomorrow? This morning, I mean?" Bastian's nod was bare as he closed his eyes wearily as he lay back on the couch. Greg hesitated at the door, torn between lust as well as more indefinable emotions and fear of giving in to Bastian. "If you don't leave by the count of three, I will come get you," came Bastian's low voice from the couch. "Bastian - " "One." "Wait a minute, we need to - " "Two." Greg made to open the door. "Too late," Bastian growled. Greg turned, and managed to sputter "Hey!" in indignation before Bastian slammed his body against him. The force of impact caused the door to slam shut behind Greg. And Greg knew in a wave of fear as well as exhilaration that he was trapped. TWO "You have become more hairy than I thought, cousin," Bastian murmured huskily as he savagely ripped Greg's loose shirt apart. "I like that." "Get off me," Greg hissed, sprawled on the floor with Bastian's heavy weight pinning him to the floor. "Or I will - " "You will. what?" Bastian mocked, his lips barely an inch away from Greg's. "Bite me? Hurt me? Please fucking do, cousin." Greg's lips parted in anticipation of the kiss, but Bastian cruelly moved his lips so that they fell on the slender curve of Greg's neck instead. "I love you, Greg," he whispered to Greg's ear between his nuzzling, tender bites. "I love you so much you can't imagine." Greg couldn't answer. In this moment, he wanted so badly to believe in Bastian. And Bastian was gentle, too gentle that every gesture of his hurt Greg worse than a blow in the heart. Tender yet scorching kisses seared Greg's vulnerable, exposed neck, nipples, and shoulder blades. It was Greg who ached for fulfillment, and he urgently pushed at the waistband of Bastian's jeans. This was Bastian, his fantasy, his adventurer who came to sweep him off his feet. and this was Bastian, his cousin whom he shared his heart and soul to. It seemed Bastian was drowning as much as he in this mess they created. But tonight, at least, they could find surcease. Greg moaned softly as he felt Sebastian's thick, pulsing cock glide across the curves of his thigh and balls, leaving a trail of sheen liquid precum. And when Bastian's cock gently but firmly parted the tight folds of Greg's guarded anus, Greg lifted his thighs in welcome. The pain and the intertwined pleasure of penetration caused him to cry out and for Bastian to kiss him in what little comfort he could offer. Greg reached up and grasp Bastian's shoulders to hold the man tight to him. "Fuck me, Bastian," he gasped. "Please." "I will, cousin," Bastian answered. "Will you stop calling me that, damn you?" Bastian laughed breathlessly and then started fucking Greg with full earnest. And he didn't stop even when Greg begged for mercy, Greg's hands clawing and bruising the man's back in spasms of pain/pleasure, and he didn't even stop even when he came in scorching spewing of thick ropes of ejaculate - he didn't stop until he couldn't take it anymore. This was Greg, his senses sang, this was Greg whom he was fucking and marking as his with his touch, semen, and taste. Greg was his. And his heart, fearful that this was a dream and just as determined to keep this real, threatened to burst with emotions he was barely prepared to feel. "Just because you screwed me doesn't mean you are moving into my place," Greg said indignantly the following evening. "Oh put that there!" Bastian paused where he was about to place the giraffe on the center of the large table in the room. "This is a nice place for the giraffe." "The giraffe is better off there, at the corner of the display shelf," Greg said, praying inside for patience. "Yeah, good idea," Bastian said agreeably. "You're not moving in here," Greg tried again. "Hey, I'm going to be around," Bastian said, tried again too. "And I'm sleeping in your bed tonight. Come on, you like it," he said persuasively. "You want to try out the positions in this book I found in a temple in Kashmir?" "Oh?" Intrigued despite himself, Greg walked towards Bastian, who was holding up an old leather-bound book in his arms. "They actually have a secret homosexual cult back then, and they have all these interesting positions and tricks," Bastian murmured. "Let me see that," Greg said, taking the book out of Bastian's hands. "Oh fucking Christ," he exclaimed when he saw the first page. "Is that possible?" "Want to find out?" Bastian asked suggestively. Thus Greg found himself on his bed a few moments later, being banged out of his mind by Bastian's relentless pumping. He had his own way of evening the odds, however. His fingers tightened around the end knot of the silken cloth, and pulled until the first of seven knots along the cloth pulled out of Bastian's anus. The wear tearing sound was followed by Bastian's spasm of pleasure, and his cock only noticeably hardened in the tight grip of Greg's sheath as Greg pulled another knot free, the knot bruising Bastian's prostate. And ruthlessly, Greg kept pulling. Bastian's hands on Greg's shoulders tightened as his prostate got a violent bruising times seven. At the seventh knot coming free, his prostate felt like exploding and he lost it, coming in Greg violently until he was sure he had lost his mind. "So much for the seven knot trick," Greg remarked, tossing aside the soiled silken scarf. "I read something about using your knuckles in a rather interesting way." Bastian moaned and wished he had never shown Greg the book. He was fucking glad he did. When Greg's fingers penetrated him slowly, lubricated with gel, to stretch him until his eyes tear in pain, until each finger was truly embedded inside Bastian, Greg began teasing Bastian with his knuckles around Bastian's widely sensitized anal pucker muscles. Already raw with pain from the painful almost-fisting, Greg's increasingly confident toying with his swollen, raw anal pucker soon had Bastian moaning and pleading and crying for more. Those knuckles stretched him until he writhed in pain, and then Greg was slowly massaging his sore flesh, those fingers soothing his anal walls until Bastian was lulled into luxuriating in the caresses. Then the knuckle bruising torment began again. It was hell and it was pure heaven. When Greg mounted Bastian and pushed his cock up Bastian's torn, sore anus, Bastian didn't want this to end, ever. This was right, how could he ever consider leaving this? He couldn't. He didn't want to. He was a goner, hopelessly tied, staked, and marked as Greg's. A willing servant and lover, until the bitter end. He was doomed, and fuck if he didn't embrace his fate with any more relish. THREE Greg Vaughan came home three months later to an empty apartment. There was a letter, there always was. "Dear Greg, I can't take this. We are good together, why wouldn't you fucking believe that? I can't take you doing everything you can to drive me away. I've done all I can. You know where to find me. Come to me when you get your act together. Hope I'll still be waiting. Yours, Bastian." So the man was gone. Greg always thought so. He never let Bastian close to him, except maybe in bed, and even then, he tried not to give too much of himself to Bastian. And Bastian saw this as a sign that Greg was deliberately driving him away? He should be happy - he was vindicated. No more heartbreak. The most dangerous man to his heart was gone. He could start moving on with his life again. So fucking hell, where was his joy? Why was he staring at the letter and feeling this pain in his chest, as if he had lost everything in his life? Why did he feel that he was the most stupid asshole in the world? "Bastian!" he heard himself cry. Like a ghost watching from afar, he found himself dashing out of the door. He didn't want to go after Bastian - hell , he didn't even know where Bastian was - or so his brain kept insisting. But his feet kept running, and his heart wouldn't beat again until he found Bastian. Melodramatic, but that was how he felt, and no amount of sensible thinking could help him deny that. He found Bastian sitting at the roof of their store, of all places, sitting there with the familiar mahogany box of letters in his waist. And genuine terror seized Greg when he realized that Bastian could very well tip the letters over down to the drains below. "You're right," Bastian said, not turning to look at Greg. "I fell in love with a fantasy." "Bastian, I'm sorry," Greg said. "So am I." Bastian finally turned, and his red-rimmed eyes, still wet with tears, were unreadable. "The last three months were pure hell. You were cold, you keep driving me away, fuck, man, you wouldn't even trust a word I say. Well, you've succeeded. I've had it. I'm getting out of here." "I'm so sorry," Greg whispered. His voice carried in the wind. "I am a stupid coward. Bastian, will you forgive me?" "You want me to stay?" Bastian asked back. "Yes," he said. "It took me awhile to realize this, but I want you to stay. And if you want to leave, let me come with you." Bastian smiled weakly. "I don't know. You really pissed me off." "And I hurt you. I will try to make it up to you." "You can't. But we can start anew," Bastian said. Greg nodded. A drop of moisture fell onto his hand, and he realized he was crying. Bastian stood up and carefully placed the box on the ground before holding out his right hand to Greg. And Greg, not caring to wipe his eyes, took it. "I think I'm making this too easy for you," Bastian murmured as he clasped Greg tightly in his arms. "But when you say you're sorry and you want me to stay, I can't feel angry anymore. Don't hurt me, Greg, please." It hurt Greg to see such a man sunk so low. No man should have such power over another. "I won't," he promised. "Okay. By the way, I bought air tickets for the both of us to visit Serengeti. I've been there too many times, but I think you'll like it there. Dr Jones wanted me to help him out with some ecological measurements - " "Fucking hell, you knew I would come begging," Greg exclaimed, pushing the other man back. "I'm an optimist. And I can always cash the spare ticket back in," Bastian shot back. "Now you coming with me or not? Let your store assistant take over for a while." "Okay," Greg said. As if he would have any other answer to give Sebastian.