Brian

Sliding my tongue around the soft swell of muscle at the top of Justin's shoulder, I gently twist his arm around as my tongue begins its descent down his arm, following the trail of a vein showing blue beneath his milky-pale skin, sliding down to the inside curve of his elbow, then lifting my head a few inches so I don't leave the outside of his elbow untasted. Relaxing my shoulders again, my tongue continues its journey down the inside of his lower arm, and I reach to grasp his hand in mine, turn it over and run my tongue over his wrist and into the palm of his hand. Swirling my tongue around his open palm, my eyes focus briefly on some shadows on his wrist, then turn again to watch my tongue lick his little finger, gently bite the pad of that finger and. . . and my eyes return to the blue shadows on his wrist. I stop then, stop moving, stop breathing for the space of a few seconds.

Lifting my head, my eyes seek out Justin's. His eyes had been closed, but when he feels me stop licking his arm, he opens his eyes and returns my look, though he says nothing.

"What's this? On your wrist?"

"Brian, it's not a big deal," he answers coolly.

Which of course immediately jerks me to attention. Pulling myself into a sitting position, I bring his hand close to my face and I study the shadows, which resolve themselves into bruises, slightly faded bruises, pale blue and yellowish-green.

Justin sits up then. "Brian - "

I grab his other hand and pull it toward me. Matching bruises on the other wrist.

"Brian," Justin’s calm, too fucking calm. "It's no big deal, you know how easily my skin bruises."

"Stop fucking around and tell me," my voice is rough; I clear my throat and demand, "Tell me."

"Okay, it was Jim Masterson, but - "

"The mad rapist?"

"Yeah, but that's sort of a joke really. He - "

"He put handcuffs on you? Fucking handcuffs?" I hear my voice go up in register and volume and so does Justin.

"No! Brian, absolutely not! Jesus, that would've been - no. No, he only was holding my hands, that's all." He's staring at me intently and when I don't react, he repeats, "Brian, you know how easily my skin bruises."

"You don't fucking BRUISE from fucking HOLDING HANDS. Why didn't you tell me this?"

"Brian - "

"Where else are you bruised? What the fuck are you hiding?"

"Nothing! It’s only my wrists. Brian, he grabbed onto me, that's all. He's a big guy, heavy and with big hands. He grabbed me, that's all."

"That's all? He fucking grabbed you and THAT'S ALL?"

"Stop yelling. I told you he made a pass at me, remember?"

"Making a pass is not grabbing.”

"It was a misunderstanding, Brian, I told you this already. He thought I was a hustler and was playing hard to get."

"You did not fucking tell me that! Why did he think you were a hustler?"

Justin opens his mouth to answer but I hold up a hand to stop him. "Enough with the Q and A. Just fucking tell me exactly what happened. EXACTLY."

"Okay," he agrees, "But stop yelling."

Justin pulls up his legs and folds them underneath him, yoga-style. Folding his hands in his lap, he tilts his head to one side and says, "Brian, I knew you'd get all hysterical and, you know, maybe you think you're being like, protective of me or something but what you're really doing is insulting me. I can take care of myself, I did take care of myself, and I knew if I told you all the minor details and shit, you'd start this third-degree routine."

"Minor details?" I'm glad to hear how calm my voice sounds, inside I can feel my fucking heart pounding and I want to grip the little asshole's shoulders and shake him like a dog shakes a bone. "Grabbing and bruises are not fucking minor details. And you're insulting ME when you withhold important information."

I pull my eyes away from Justin's face with a huge effort. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, stand up and stride quickly to the door.

"Where are you going? Brian, come back and talk to me."

"I need a drink."

"There isn't anything in the house.” Then he adds, his voice taking on an edge, "So, maybe we can have a two-sided conversation for a change. Just you and me. Not you, me and a bottle of bourbon."

That fucking pisses me off, as no doubt, he intends it to. But for some reason, I don't lose my temper. Maybe because he's right. Which actually should piss me off even more, but doesn't. Nodding acquiescence, I turn and come back to the bed, perch on the edge. "Okay. So tell me. And this time, don't leave out any 'minor' details.”

"Okay." Justin unclasps his hands. "The thing is, and you absolutely cannot get mad about this part. . ."

I brace myself.

"The thing is, later I found out that Andrew Whittaker s-sometimes," his slightly quaking voice belies nervousness under the façade of his studied calm, "Sometimes he sends guys to Masterson. Hookers, young ones. And anyway, somehow Jim Masterson thought that I was a hooker. He didn't let me explain, he just grabbed my hands and made a pass at me. Like I more or less told you."

"More or less."

"Yeah."

"And then what?"

"And then finally he - he let me go."

I cross my arms on my chest and fix him with an intense stare. "More."

"Okay, so there was a little struggle first, but only because he wasn't listening to me, he already thought I was a hooker just messing around, so he got kind of, you know, rough."

"Define rough."

"He - " Justin's voice falters briefly, then he sits up straight and continues, "He pushed me down on the sofa, and w-was taking my pants off. But I - managed to get away from him, I got away, and then I grabbed his balls and squeezed as hard as I could. Then he let me go."

"Jesus Christ." I'm surprised that my voice is so unruffled. I sound practically fucking serene. "So, in fact, 'the mad rapist' is just fucking exactly what this Jim Masterson is. A mad rapist."

"He didn't rape me. I got away. And then later I called Andrew and he got it all straightened out. And Jim Masterson apologized. So you see," Justin concludes, spreading his arms and leaning slightly toward me, "Brian, see, you didn't really need to know all this, and there isn't anything for you to do. I can take care of myself, I did take care of myself. Everything's okay now."

Everything's okay. Christ, I need a drink. I need a fucking drink, and if that makes me a fucking alcoholic, so be it. Closing my eyes briefly, I shake my head. Then I stand up and slide open the closet, pull out a pair of jeans and step into them.

"Where are you going?" Justin jumps off the bed and comes up behind me, puts a hand on my arm. "Brian, where are you going?"

"I'm going out." I move to the chest, open a drawer and pick up a tee shirt, pull it over my head.

Justin’s on my heels. "Brian, you can't be mad at me."

My head emerges from the shirt and I demand, "Who said I was mad at you?"

"Well, you are. But you can't be, I didn't do anything wrong."

"I am not mad at you," I insist, shoving my wallet into my pocket. It’s the truth, I am not mad at Justin. "But you should have told me. How can you think it was okay to keep this shit a secret?"

"Because, Brian," he says reasonably, "Because I knew you'd be upset, and I was afraid you'd go after Andrew. Or something. And," he adds quickly as I slip my feet into shoes, "I don't need you to do anything, I don't WANT you to do anything."

That stops me, that makes me throw up my head and stare hard at him. "You’re defending your asshole boss?"

"Andrew didn't do anything wrong, it wasn't his fault! He didn't send me to the client for sex, it was totally a misunderstanding."

My teeth are clenched, I can't form a coherent sentence, I just stand there staring at him. Finally, Justin insists again, "It was not Andrew's fault. It was Reg who caused the problem, not Andrew."

"Who the fuck is Reg?"

"Jesus, Brian, I've talked about him a hundred times. He's Andrew's personal assistant."

"The one who's jealous of you?"

"Yeah. Well," Justin shrugs his shoulders, "He doesn't like me anyway. It was Reg who called Masterson and told him Andrew was sending 'his boy' to see him. That's why Masterson assumed I was a hooker."

"The fuck. Andrew knows this?" He nods and I demand, "And did he fire Reg?"

"No. Andrew thinks it was just a mistake."

"Bullshit."

Justin shrugs again. "Yeah, I agree, but I can't prove it. Just like I can't prove that it was Reg who gave my cell phone number to those pervs who kept calling me for sex." Justin takes a deep breath and whooshes it out. "So anyway," he concludes, straightening his shoulders, "Now you see that it was not Andrew's fault. I just want to forget it and move on from here."

Whether Reg is to blame or not is almost irrelevant to me, it's still mostly Andrew's fault that this happened. "But," I remind him, "You could have been raped, or worse. You know that, don't you? Don't you?"

"Yes, of course. But - it didn't happen. Are you even hearing me, Brian? It didn't happen!"

I bend my head, bring my face close to his. "Answer one question. Just one. And tell me the God-damned absolute fucking truth."

He looks steadily back at me and nods. "Okay."

"Were you scared?"

"I - "

"Were you scared?"

He just stands staring at me, then he swallows hard. "Yes," he admits, and he nods his head again. "Not for very long, but, yes, I was scared."

My arms go around his shoulders then and I pull him hard against me. His arms go around me too and we hold on tight to each other. I feel him shiver slightly and tighten his hold on me. We stand like that for a minute, then, “Justin,” I admonish gently, “Don’t ever keep shit like this from me again. Partners don’t keep secrets.”

“I promise.” His voice is muffled against my chest.

Almost reluctantly I pull away. "I'm going out for a bottle. That's all, I'm going to get some JB and bring it right back here. I'm going to have a drink, and you can have one too, if you want. Then we'll go back to bed and start over. Okay?"

"Okay." Justin's smile is a little lopsided, but he is smiling, and I give him a cheeky grin. He follows me to the door and stands watching till I'm out of sight down the stairs.

Once out of his line of vision, I feel myself start to shake, I'm having a major earthquake. 8.5 on the Kinney Richter scale. Christ almighty, Justin almost got raped. Or worse. He got away, but Jesus Christ, that is totally not acceptable. And this is not the end of it. Not the fucking end of it, not by a fucking long shot.


Justin

Of course, I should have known that Brian would see the bruises on my wrists, but they'd faded and were barely visible so I'd gambled that he wouldn't notice. Which was stupid, Brian's got a kind of radar where my body is concerned. Or maybe he has memorized me like I have memorized him.

I can draw every inch of Brian's body with my eyes closed, like a map of the moon with every crevice and indentation noted, in fact, I could name every tiny scar or bump like astronomers name the features of the moon. A slight indentation on his right elbow is really a scar (which Brian refuses to acknowledge IS a scar but which Michael told me Brian got when he broke his arm playing soccer years ago). It could be called The Sea of Tranquility. Not that Brian's ever tranquil, in fact when he's super intense about something, he appears to be all relaxed. So whenever Brian seems really laid back, then I know that something's up.

Like just now. He smiled and ambled down the stairs, off to buy a bottle and bring it right back. I hope he comes right back, and I hope he's not going to confront Andrew about this thing. It's over, I just want it to be over and move on. It was unpleasant but there's no harm done after all. I'm fine. I am fine, damn it.

Okay, so I had a bad dream Friday night, it was nothing, nothing at all like the dreams I had after the bashing. It was just a small nightmare type of thing, it probably had nothing to do with Jim Masterson. But it was only the one dream, and nothing since then. I'm fine, and now that Brian's home and sleeping in the bed with me, I'm sure I won't be having any more bad dreams. Nightmares are just bogeyman type of things, and I am way too old to be scared of the fucking bogeyman.

I forgot to tell Brian that I'm getting a bonus for the logo design I created, but I sense that this is not a good time to talk about work. I pull on sweats and drop down onto the sofa, turn on the tv and wait for Brian to come home. Which he does in just a few minutes, luckily he really did only go for a bottle, so when he comes in the door I hurry to get two glasses and hold them out for him to fill.

"Just a drap for ye, lad," Brian insists, using this terrible fake-Irish accent that he knows I can't stand. His French accent is great (at least to my ears) and he does a killer Southern accent too. But the Irish one is awful, it feels like fingernails on a blackboard, so he uses it to torture me sometimes. We throw back our shots and he pours himself another, but shakes his head when I hold out my glass. "Nay," he murmurs, "I'll not have ye fallin' asleep while I fewk yer wee ass."

That makes me laugh. "There's nothing wee about my ass," I remind him and he chuckles.

"Aye," he agrees, "It's a roight grand ass, it is."

"Shut up!" I grab his arm and jostle him as he throws back the second shot. "Stop wasting time drinking, let's go to bed!"

Brian laughs again, sets down the bottle and his glass and throws his arm around my shoulders, leading me into the bedroom.



Brian

Monday I stayed late at the office, catching up, but Tuesday night I’m home early enough for a special dinner Justin promised me. "Can you give me a ride to school in the morning?" He's wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, he's set the table and I pull out my chair and sit down.

"School? You're not working tomorrow?" I spread the napkin on my lap and glance up at him.

"I told you," he says patiently as he sets down a large dish in the center of the table and takes off the lid.

I can smell chicken and sausage and beans, it's a cassoulet he makes sometimes, low carb and delicious. "Mmm," I murmur appreciatively, grabbing a spoon and helping myself to a medium-size portion (two hundred twenty calories). "Told me what?"

"I told you, last week," Justin repeats, "My class is going on a field trip to the Getty Museum Wednesday, I'm taking the day off work."

Oh yeah, he did tell me. I nod and spoon a big bite of cassoulet into my mouth. I savor the taste and remind myself that, if I have to have a fucking domestic partner, at least I'm lucky to have one who's fucking domestic enough to cook. Then I almost choke as I swallow the bite, something suddenly occurs to me.

"You okay?" Justin demands, jumping up to pound me on the back.

"Fine, fine," I insist, coughing to clear my throat and relaxing back in my chair. I frown at him and insist, "I'm okay, I just swallowed wrong."

Justin sits down again and we eat in silence for a few minutes, my brain has switched on and is whirring fast. I'm pretty sure my calendar is free mid-morning Wednesday - I'll make sure it's free. Maybe I'll take a little field trip of my own.

"Is it good - the cassoulet?" Justin's voice penetrates the fog in my scheming brain.

"What?" I blink at him, then answer mildly, "Oh yeah, it's not bad."

"That's encouraging," he says, sighing and shaking his head.

"If it weren't good, I wouldn't eat it," I point out reasonably. I don't believe in overdoing praise.

"Thanks, Brian, I'm honored to have you eat my humble food, that I spent a couple hours slaving over."

I'm nothing if not gracious. "You're very welcome."



Justin

All day at work Monday I worried that Brian would make a surprise appearance, maybe demand to see Andrew, make a scene of some kind. Of course Brian never really makes scenes, but it seemed likely there'd be repercussions after he found out what happened with Jim Masterson. Luckily Masterson doesn't live in LA so I didn't have to worry that Brian would go after him.

Andrew came by the art department on Monday afternoon to see my boss and Joe called me in to join them. They praised my work on the new logo and Andrew told Joe that he was initiating a bonus for me. They both shook my hand and Andrew gave me a brief hug. I left the office feeling great about the progress I'm making on my career. I know I still need that college degree but the experience I'm getting at Simpson is priceless.

Andrew usually gives me a ride home and normally I wait in his office till he's ready, but on Monday when he came out of Joe's office, he stopped by my desk and said he'd give me a call when he was leaving so I could meet him in the parking lot. That was a huge relief - I really did not want to see Reg. Then later Brian called and said he'd be in Burbank in the late afternoon so he arranged to pick me up instead.

Tuesday was uneventful at work. I reminded Joe about the Wednesday field trip; he's been to the Getty lots of times and he told me I'll love the exhibits and the beautiful museum itself. I was going to remind Andrew later, on the ride home, but once again Brian called and said he could pick me up.

"Great, that's great. But Brian," I needed to know, "Does this have anything to do with - with, you know?" I didn't want to speak about the Masterson thing in the office.

There was silence on the other end of the phone, then Brian answered slowly, "No. But I think you should make other arrangements. Maybe grab a taxi on nights I can't pick you up."

"That's dopey. We can't afford taxis."

"Yes, we can."

"Brian, if you feel that way, I can take the bus. It's no big deal, it just takes a bit longer."

"We'll talk about it later. Gotta go." And he rang off.

We did talk about it, on the ride home. Brian said, "You're a man, you can do what you want. I don't think you should ride with him anymore, but it's your call. I'm not your keeper."

"It's just kind of obvious," I offer, "If I stop now. It's sort of insulting to him, don't you think?"

"And why exactly do I care if he's insulted?"

"Because he's my boss?"

Brian's silent for a moment, then he says, "You need a fucking car."

We can't afford another car but I say nothing, we've had this discussion twelve times already. Finally, Brian waggles his hand in the air, keeping his eyes on the traffic. "Do whatever you want."

"I want to ride with Andrew," I insist stubbornly. "When you can't pick me up."

I brace myself for outrage, but Brian doesn't do outrage. He merely shrugs. "Fine."



Brian

The element of surprise is lost when a guard at the gate of Simpson Studios calls Andrew Whittaker's office to find out if he'll see me. Andrew remembers my name, which surprises me somewhat; he tells the guard to let me in. I'm issued a visitor pass and directed to guest parking, then I find my way to the administrative offices and a receptionist directs me through a maze of hallways to the president's office. It's not as impressive as I assumed it would be, and I find myself relaxing slightly.

Pushing open a plain oak door, I enter the domain of Justin's arch enemy. A nameplate on the door proclaims Reg Davis, Assistant to the President. He looks up as I approach, and I'm glad that I knew ahead of time about the blond forelock so I don't laugh out loud - he looks like a circus horse; all he needs is a harness with bells, and feathers in his mane.

"Hey," I greet him, dropping my voice, giving him my subtle come-hither smile, and right away (naturally) he's interested. He raises his head and I can see his nostrils flare, he practically whinnies with delight, his feet are probably pawing the floor beneath his desk. I stop right in front of him, press my legs against the desk edge, my cock's at eye level and he eyes it all right, a quick glance before returning his eyes to my face.

"Good morning,” he greets me formally, standing up. "Can I help you?"

Looking him up and down, I let my smile widen. "Probably," I drawl, "But actually, I'm here to see Andrew Whittaker. He's expecting me." When he lifts his eyebrows, I add, "Brian Kinney."

There's no sign of recognition so perhaps Justin's never mentioned my name. Reg picks up his phone and says, "Andrew, Mr. Brian Kinney is here. Yes, okay." He hangs up the phone and says, "Please have a seat, Mr. Kinney," but immediately an inner door opens and Whittaker comes out, giving me a big smile and holding out his hand for me to shake.

"Brian!" he exclaims, like we're old college buddies, "It's great to see you again, come on in."

Try as I might, I cannot return the smile, and as soon as I'm inside the office and Andrew closes the door behind us, I begin.

"I think you know why I'm here?"

"I can guess," he admits, gesturing toward a chair near his desk. "But sit down, Brian, can I get you a drink?"

"No thanks." I sit in the indicated chair and lean forward, clasping my hands together to prevent myself from punching that revoltingly handsome, ultra-sincere face. "Instead, why don't you tell me what you've done about the attack on Justin on Friday - while he was out doing your bidding?"

"Attack's a pretty strong word," Andrew shrugs his shoulders and sits down behind his desk. He's unbuttoned his suit jacket - a Versace navy-blue linen. "From what Justin told me," Andrew's saying as he relaxes back in his chair, "It was more like a case of mistaken identity, not an attack."

"I'm not going to argue semantics with you," I frown, "The fact is, Justin was injured. So you're not going to hide behind fucking euphemisms."

"Injured?" Andrew's surprised. "He didn't tell me that! What - "

"He didn't tell me, either - but I've seen the bruises. He was attacked, he was nearly raped, by some so-called friend of yours, and you're trying to sweep it under the carpet. I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen."

The truth is, I have no idea why I'm here. What am I expecting Andrew Whittaker to do now, after the fact?

"Wait a minute, back up." Andrew leans forward on the desk and he frowns. "Justin did not tell me he was hurt. He said the client grabbed him but that he pulled away; said, in fact, that he squeezed the guys' balls and ran out of the hotel. What injuries did Justin have? I swear he didn't tell me."

"He's bruised, he's got bruises. And that is totally unacceptable."

The worst injury of course, is that Justin was scared, fucking scared, but that's not something I'm going to tell Andrew Whittaker.

"Of course that's unacceptable!" Andrew exclaims, exuding either true sincerity or doing a good job pretending. "Justin's not only a very valuable member of the Simpson art department, but I consider him a personal friend. Of course, I won't tolerate any harm coming to him."

"Yet you sent him to this son-of-a-bitch client," I growl, "Someone you admitted to Justin was on the prowl for young guys. You sent him there alone - what the fuck did you think would happen?"

Whittaker's shaking his head. "I'm really sorry, but I can't agree with you that I should have known this would happen. The client is a valued customer and I sent Justin to him as an artist, as a representative of Simpson Studios, I - "

"Bullshit."

A muscle twitches in Whittaker's cheek, his frown deepens. "Brian, I swear to you that - "

"Maybe you think that Justin's a free agent."

"What?" Andrew's confused when I change tack. "No, Brian - I know he has a partner - you. I'm aware of that."

"Yes. But maybe you have an idea that he's still in some kind of way - available. Or vulnerable. Maybe you think, he's practically alone here in California, he's away from his home and family. Maybe you think it's okay for you to hit on him."

"Brian - what are you getting at? I have not hit on him. I've told you that I know Justin's in a relationship, I'm in one myself, and I - "

"Ah," I raise my chin and fix my eyes on him. "So I've heard. But I've also heard that that doesn't stop you from fucking around. Extensively."

"Got your ear to the ground, have you? My partner's aware of my extra-curricular activities. If it's any of your business. And it's not."

"It's not. Except, maybe you think it's the same for Justin."

"And it's not? You two are exclusive?"

That stops me. I don't have an immediate answer for that.

Of course, I could explain that Justin and I have an open relationship. Semi-open. We can fuck whomever we like, within certain guidelines. No friends, no bosses, just casual nameless one-time-only tricks.

But Justin's not really into tricking. He doesn't enjoy casual sex as much I as do. As I did. As I do. I enjoy it, just not as much as I used to. Or anyway not as often. Probably that's just because I'm too busy to pursue tricks right now. Or anyway that's what I keep telling myself.

And where the fuck am I going with this line of thought?

Andrew's waiting for my answer. But I won't explain. It's not his business, it's not anybody's business. Instead, I say, "Yes, we're exclusive."

And saying that, I amaze myself by not falling down dead. Because. . .well, just because.

"This conversation is over," I conclude, and I stand up to leave. "But I'm telling you," and I don't care if I'm being rational or not, God damn it, "I'm telling you, back off, and keep your fucking hands off him. And you'd better be sure none of your - associates, put their hands on him either. That's all."

A tiny smile is playing at the corner of Whittaker's mouth. "Hmm," he says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. "That sounds suspiciously like a threat."

"It's no threat. It's reality. And reality fucking bites."

"You do realize," Whittaker puts both feet back on the floor and leans forward, leans his arms on his desk. "You do realize that you could be jeopardizing Justin's career - by threatening his boss?"

"I'm not threatening you," I repeat, "I'm just providing some information." I stand up. “Thanks for seeing me today. Naturally, you won’t tell Justin I was here.”

“Naturally.” Andrew stands too. “I’ll see you out.”

“No need,” I assure him, moving to the door and pulling it open. “Goodbye.”

I don’t wait for his adieu, just pull the door closed behind me and hesitate only briefly before approaching the assistant’s desk. He glances up at me and that blond forelock falls over his eyes, he reaches up a hand to sweep it back.

In my accustomed way, I don’t mince words. “Want to get together?”

Reg grins. “Sure.”

“I’m in a hurry now,” I say quickly, “But give me your cell number, I’ll call you sometime.”

“You got it.” Reg scribbles a number on a sticky note and hands it to me. I allow our fingers to touch, giving him a small Kinney electrical charge, and I’m rewarded by seeing him jump almost imperceptibly.

Raising my hand in a silent farewell, I wave the note at him as I quickly exit the office, before Andrew can come out and witness me hitting on his assistant.

A few minutes later I’m sitting in the jeep; I pull out my cell and punch in the number.

“Hey,” I say when Reg answers, “I’ve cleared my calendar. Want to meet me for lunch?”

Reg hesitates only a moment, then he says archly, “I don’t usually eat lunch.”

“I didn’t say we were going to eat.”

He laughs but says quickly, “Okay.”

“Black jeep, in the guest parking lot. Five minutes. ”

“I’ll be there.”

It’s less than five minutes before Reg pulls open the door and slides into the seat beside me. Still not mincing words, I ask, “Live near here?”

“Not far,” he says, directing me to the Hollywood freeway north; then we ride in silence for a bit, till he points at his exit and we drive through his neighborhood, pulling into a parking garage beneath a tall apartment building. A door from the garage leads into an entry hall where I follow Reg into the elevator. He presses a button for the eleventh floor, and as soon as the elevator door closes, I grab Reg’s hips and push him roughly up against the wall, pressing my body against his as I bend my head and bite the side of his neck. He gasps and says “Ouch!”

That makes me laugh, a harsh guttural growl. “Oh, I think you like it rough,” I murmur, biting again, but more gently this time. “. . .don’t you?”

“S-sometimes,” he admits, still gasping. He’s breathing heavily and as we exit the elevator and approach his door, he can hardly turn the key. I push my body against him again and as the door opens we almost fall into his apartment.

I stop my assault then and glance around. “Nice place,” I tell him, wandering through the living room, pausing to check the view from a large plate glass window. Andrew Whittaker must pay his assistant a good salary, the apartment is fairly large and well appointed, though Reg’s idea of décor closely matches Emmett Honeycutt’s taste, ruining the design of the place. There’s a fake fireplace filled with a large vase of silk flowers, a square sectional sofa in lemon yellow, and a tall étagère along one wall with a horrifying collection of blown-glass objets d’arte. I keep moving around the room until I come to a round table in the corner which contains, among other hideous decorations, a tall gilt telephone that looks like it was purloined from a Parisian whorehouse.

Reg is still standing near the door. “Do you want a drink?”

“No thanks,” I return to his side and grab his hips again. “Where’s the bedroom? Let’s fuck.”

“Yeah.” Reg leads the way through a narrow hallway and into his boudoir, which contains a king-sized bed draped in lavender satin.

I grab Reg’s arm and pull him toward the bed, where I drop down to sit on the edge, spreading my legs wide and leaning back on my hands. Immediately Reg drops to his knees and I let him unzip my pants and pull out my cock.

“Mmm,” he says, opening his mouth wide.

Before his lips touch me, I grab his shoulders and push him back a few inches. “Wait.” Reg is practically drooling, staring at my cock. I pry off his fingers and replace his hand with my own, stroking myself to full hardness before his eyes.

“Give me a show first,” I suggest. “Let me see what you’ve got.”

“Sure.” Reg is breathing hard; he stands up and begins to undress, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off, kicking off his shoes, pulling down his pants. He’s wearing tight black briefs.

“Now show me your cock.”

Pulling down his briefs and stepping out of them, Reg stands up straight and poses in front of me, giving me a clear view of his tumescent cock quivering before my eyes.

Reaching out and grabbing Reg's hip, I pull him close to the end of the bed. "Yeah," I encourage him, "Stroke it for me."

Stifling a gasp, Reg begins to stroke himself with his right hand, resting his left hand on my shoulder. His eyes close and a small moan escapes his lips. A moment later he murmurs, "Fuck me now. Fuck me!"

"You bet I’m gonna fuck you," I assure him, "But let me watch you get ready for me. Turn around and bend over."

Obligingly Reg turns and bends over, spreading his legs, his ass cheeks also spreading open, exposing his hole. "Keep strokin'," I order him, reaching out to lightly smack his ass. He quivers but keeps on with the hand action, and a moment later I tell him, "Now shove a finger up your ass."

Reg looks at me over his shoulder. "You do it, man, finger-fuck me!"

"No, I want to watch you - you're making me hot." And I wave my cock at him.

Snaking his left hand behind himself, Reg shoves a finger up his ass.

"Two."

Reg bends over further, pushing in two fingers, sliding them urgently inside and out.

"Three."

"Oh," Reg groans, "Oh God, fuck me now!"

"Yeah," I agree, "I'm gonna - oops, wait a sec."

I stop stroking myself and reach inside my jacket, pull out my cell phone, push a button and hold it to my ear.

Reg glances over his shoulder again. "I didn't hear your phone ring," he says.

"It's on vibrate," I whisper, "No, don't stop, I'll be right with you." Reg frowns but keeps up the action as I say into the telephone, "Yes?"

I'm pressing my ear to the phone and nodding my head. Then I place a hand over it and reach out my other hand to slap Reg's ass again, making him jump. "Don't stop!" I order him, "This'll just take a second."

Standing up, I put a hand on the back of Reg's neck, pushing slightly so he's bent nearly double. "Yes," I say into the phone, "Go ahead, but make it quick, I'm busy." Reg turns his head to look up at me and I give him a wink and a wicked smile.

Letting go of Reg's neck, I move slowly toward the door. "Hold on a moment," I say into the telephone, then put my hand over it again. "Reg," I whisper, "I have to take this call, but keep strokin', I want you ready for my cock, this'll just take a second."

Reg raises up slightly and gasps, "Hurry man, I'm ready for your cock right now!"

"Go ahead," I say into the phone, then put my hand over it again and whisper, "Get on the bed - on your knees, get your ass in the air, I'll be back in one minute and I'm gonna fuck the shit out of you!"

I wait long enough to watch Reg move onto the bed, sliding across the slippery lavender bedspread on his knees and raising his ass in the air.

"Yeah," I murmur encouragingly, "Stay just like that - and don't stop stroking your cock - I'll be right back!"

Then I move quickly through the hall and into the living room, talking into the phone. "Tell the client to make an appointment for Monday," I say loudly, "And don't interrupt me again." I'm shoving my cock back inside my pants and zipping up.

Moving silently over the hideous puke-green carpeting, I quietly ease open the door into the hall and close it behind me. The elevator arrives immediately and I move inside and hit the lobby button. As the doors close and the elevator begins its descent, I click off my phone - of course I didn't really get a call - and shove it inside my jacket.

Luckily I find one of Justin’s drawing pencils in the jeep's glove compartment and quickly write down the number I saw on Reg’s fancy gold telephone before I forget it. Now that I’ve got Reg’s cell phone number and his home phone number, I can turn the tables on the horse-faced mother-fucking prick. I’ll stop at a pay phone on my way back to the office, and give his numbers to the call-boy services I researched last night on the 'net.

So, that’s Andrew Whittaker and Reg Davis crossed off my list. Now if only there were some way to punish “the mad rapist” himself, I’d be completely satisfied. I’m reminded of a scene in “The Godfather” where some big shot wakes up with a bloody horse head in his bed. With a resigned sigh, I acknowledge that unfortunately, I don’t have any mafia contacts, so I’ll have to be content with the results of today’s little field trip to Simpson Studios.

Oh well, two out of three’s not bad.



Justin

Since I have the day off work, I stay at school for a while when we get back from our field trip to the Getty Museum, putting in a couple hours working on a project in the watercolor studio. I take the bus home, and I’m surprised to discover that Brian’s already there. He’s in his home uniform of jeans and a black silk tee, sprawled on the sofa watching some old black-and-white movie on tv.

“Hey.” I drop my bag by the door and throw myself down next to Brian; he turns and slides his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close for a kiss. “What’re you watching?”

“For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

“Well,” I ask after a moment, “For whom does it toll?”

“It tolls for thee.” And he gives me an enigmatic smile and another kiss. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” I admit. “We had lunch at the museum cafeteria, the food was good but the portions were really small.”

“I skipped lunch today, so I’m starving too,” Brian says. “Want to go out for dinner?”

“We could stay home,” I suggest. “There’s some of that cassoulet left.”

“Mmm.” Brian nuzzles my neck and pulls me tight against him. Then I hear his stomach growl.

“You really are hungry, huh? Let me go fix dinner.”

“Wait,” he says, tightening his grip. “I want an appetizer first.”

Brian smacks a kiss on my mouth, then pulls away, turns and slips off the sofa. Pushing the coffee table out of the way, Brian kneels at my feet and uses both hands to spread open my legs. He grins as he reaches up to unbutton my khakis and slips his hand inside. Pulling out my cock, he says, “Mmm” again and leans forward to flick a lick on the end; naturally, I’m hard as a rock even before his warm tongue touches my skin.

“Mmm,” Brian repeats, licking his tongue around the head of my cock, he’s still looking up at me. “I love a huge cock.”

“Especially mine?” I suggest breathlessly, not really expecting an answer.

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, surprising me. “Especially yours.” Then he closes his eyes, opens his mouth wide and lunges forward, swallowing my cock whole, right up to the hilt.

Groaning, I reach out blindly for his head, my fingers twist handfuls of his beautiful thick hair and I slide further down on the sofa, giving myself up to the pleasure of being inside Brian’s mouth. His hands are busy too, the left sliding up under my tee shirt to tweak my right nipple, the one I used to have pierced, it’s still the most sensitive. Brian slides his other hand around my waist, slipping it under the waistband of my jeans to rub my butt crack and pinch my cheeks.

Naturally, I’m ready to shoot after only a few minutes of Brian’s talented mouth and fingers. “Yeah, yeah,” he urges, his words muffled around my straining cock, he knows I’m ready, and in three seconds, maybe four I feel my body spasm and jerk. My cock erupts like Vesuvius as Brian holds it tight inside his mouth, he’s sucking and slurping every drop that I shoot down his throat, he swallows and swallows as my body spasms a few more times, then I slump boneless onto the sofa cushions, groaning breathlessly.

“Oh my God, Brian,” I manage to gasp, “You give the world’s most fantastic blow job.”

“Nah,” he denies it as he moves up to sit beside me on the sofa. He laughs as he adds, “I never thought I’d admit this, but I think you’re even better than me at giving head.”

“Impossible!”

He just smiles and leans over to plant a loud kiss on my lips. “After dinner, we can play dueling blow-jobs. Best two out of three?”

“You’re on!” I agree, jumping up and grabbing Brian’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s have dinner now, we’re going to need all our strength!”