The Loft by Tagsit




Brian Kinney stood in front of his full-length mirror and gave his reflection a final once-over. He thoroughly approved of what he saw. His tall, lean body didn't have an ounce of excess fat. His muscular chest and arms were toned but not overly so.  His auburn hair was styled perfectly (though at the same time presenting that slightly touseled, unstyled look) with not a single strand out of place. Freshly shaved and clad in his favorite pair of Armani black jeans with a soft cotton sleeveless shirt, Brian determined he was ready for anything.

"I'd fuck me", Brian commented to himself with his trademark smirk.

The sultry brunet strode to the kitchen bar, grabbed his wallet and keys and looked through his stash box to find a couple of hits of E, which he pocketed for later. He turned towards the door, but hesitated briefly - what was he forgetting? His gaze fell on the shell bracelet he had taken off when he'd jumped into the shower earlier. 'Don't want to forget that', he thought, grabbing the treasured adornment and snapping the clasp closed as he headed out for his usual Thursday night rounds.


As Brian left the elevator on the ground floor of the building, his eyes briefly brushed over the Loft's mailbox - it was almost a reflexive motion. 'That's odd,' he told himself, 'I already got the mail today.  What's in my box now'? His path diverted towards the box as he fished his keys out of his pocket, unlocked the box and pulled out the envelope from inside.  He noted briefly that there was no return address on the letter but didn't think any more about it as he deftly deposited the letter in his rear jeans' pocket.  Woody's and Babylon awaited and no mere letter would distract the Stud of Liberty Avenue from making his duly appointed rounds.



Approximately six hours later, Brian was confronted by a tired looking brunet in the back room at Babylon. "Brian, we're tired and hungry. We want to go get something to eat.  How much longer will you be", whined the dark haired, brown eyed man.

Brian reached down to the trick whose lips were currently roaming up and down his dick, and raised the twink's chin with his index finger. Looking into the eyes of the man who was servicing him at the moment, Brian responded, "five minutes, tops". He wasn't even sure he would be that long, though, since the blow job so far was definitely below par. The twink was definitely attractive with those large puppy-dog eyes, but his technique was for shit. Brian felt that the man's tongue was much too tentative and the sucking was definitely uninspired. Of course, Brian reminded himself that his opinion was jaded at this point in his life - the number of blow jobs he had had just in this room alone was probably approaching the 4 figure mark and he could only actually remember maybe five or six of the actual events. This particular blow job was definitely NOT memorable enough to be included in those few.  In fact, he was having trouble even staying hard at this point. As his friend exited through the doorway, he decided it wasn't even worth finishing and pulled away from the trick with a brusque, "Fuck off", as he followed Michael out the door. He pointedly ignored the disappointed countenance of the trick who sat back on his heels staring at Brian's retreating back.

Minutes later he emerged from the maw of the den of iniquity, otherwise known as Babylon, and sauntered over to greet his friends. He gracefully draped his arm over the shoulders of Michael, his best friend and the one who had pulled him away from the unsatisfactory blowjob.

"That was quick", piped Michael.


"Well, when you've had as much practice as he's had," quipped the dark haired, sallow complected man standing to Michael's left with a disdainful air.  


"I got bored", Brian replied to his friend Ted. Ted was actually almost appalled. He could never in a million years imagine himself walking away from any blowjob, however mediocre it might be.


"I know, getting your dick sucked can be sooo tedius," Emmett, the tall sandy-blond haired man tagging behind the group added with a scarcastic twist of his generous mouth.

"He looked pretty hot to me", Michael intoned.

"Well, anybody would look hot to you", Brian responded, instantly regretting his insensitive remark to his best friend. Luckily Michael seemed to have ignored the comment.

As Brian headed towards his jeep, ready to return home, Michael deftly grabbed the brunet's keys out of his hand and pushed the larger man towards the passenger side of the vehicle. Brian only hesitated for a moment before taking the other man's implied suggestion; he really had had too much to drink and at least one tab too many hits of E to be considered safe to drive. He was content letting his usual chauffeur take him home - it was not like it was an unusual occurrence for either man. Michael was always Brian's designated driver and had been since they were both legal to drive.


The next morning, Brian started awake abruptly due to the nagging sound of his alarm going off at 7:30 am. He rolled over to violently hit the snooze button then gratefully sank back into the comfort of his plush mattress. While struggling to reach full consciousness, he evaluated the level of his morning hangover.  He was more than familiar with the pounding headaches, dry-mouth and general queasiness associated with his almost nightly drinking and drug binges. He quickly determined that this morning's version was less serious than usual and that he would be back to his usual charming self in short order. Assuming, that is, that he got his standard 3 cups of coffee in before his first meeting at 9:00 am.


As the snooze alarm went off again, he rolled off the bed, hit the clock with more force than was strictly necessary, and headed for the shower while absentmindedly scratching his stomach. After a shower and quick jerk-off to relieve his morning woody, he plodded back to the bedroom to dress. Brian languidly reached down to pick up the clothing from last night puddled at the end of the bed. As he went to deposit the soiled, sweat and cigarette contaminated club clothes into the hamper, he noted a crinkling noise coming from his jeans' pocket. He reached in and pulled out the rather crumpled envelope he remembered pulling out of his mailbox last night.


'Oh yeah', he thought as he remembered that he hadn't had time to look over this odd letter. He quickly deposited the soiled clothing into the hamper and returned to the bed to sit and open the letter.


As he began to read the note inside, Brian's expression changed from confused to slightly amused to outright angry. Who was this Justin Taylor? He didn't have a tennant? What was this guy trying to pull?


At the nearby desk, Brian pulled out a sheet of the expensive stationary he kept handy for his personal correspondence and quickly penned a brusque reply to this Mr. Taylor.  He stuffed the letter into an envelope but then hesitated as to what address to put on the front. The letter from Taylor hadn't included a return address. The man somehow, though, had access to the loft's mailbox - he'd obviously received some of Brian's mail and a delivery from his usual condom supplier - so Brian decided to leave off the address and merely noted Taylor's name on the envelope. If this Taylor could access his mail, he would find the note regardless of how it was addressed.


Brian bolted out the door, deposited the letter in the box and flipped the Out-Going Mail lever, then proceeded out to his car and on to his life. He really didn't think any more about the odd letter the rest of the day



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