Date: Mon, 6 Mar 2000 18:12:44 EST
From: VicHowel@aol.com
Subject: Gut Feelings - chapter III

Are you liking the series?  Let me know.  Writers are a strange breed, we
NEED to get stroked occasionally - for our writing, mate!  Write me at
Vichowel@aol.com.

A nice present is Casting Couch Confessions.  I edited it and 3 of my
stories appear in it.  The other stories are just as good as mine.  Order
it thru Nifty's link with Amazon and you'll be helping Nifty too.  That's a
good deal - an anthology your friend can enjoy and helping Nifty at the
same time.  Go for it

**********************************************************************

GUT FEELINGS - CHAPTER THREE - by Dave MacMillan


Brett Chandler stood beside the small stage and watched the two Britons
leave the club.  He licked his rouged lips at the thought of that Phillip
Goodson.  The man had a lot of promise of being something good.  Something
really good.

It wasn't so much that this Phillip Goodson was good looking.  He was
handsome, but Brett had had better looking men.  He frowned as he
remembered how many.  There had been far too many.  A year of men, one
almost every night.  And every one of them so - so predictable, as his own
life always had been when he lived in Atlanta and was going to be again
when he returned to that world in which he had grown up.

Predictable - the bland sameness - like it had been all through school and
his life had been planned before he escaped from it and was accepted at the
University of London.  St. Andrew's Boys Academy, the family home on West
Paces Ferry two doors down from the Governor's Mansion, the lovely thing
with honeysuckle in her voice and nothing for brains the folks wanted him
to date.  He had done everything a boy from a rich, influencial Georgia
family should do.  His first eighteen years on earth had been so bland that
he'd have done anything to escape.  And he had.  All the way to London.

No one had known he had applied to the University of London; he'd kept that
a secret.  Even mid-way through his senior year at St. Andrew's, his family
and friends were still planning his student days at Emory where he would
pledge the same fraternity his father and grandfather had joined.  Where
his life would continue to be one of country clubs, parties, and snipping
the dividend coupons from his Coca Cola stocks.  Where his life would
continue in the same, seamless boredom that had held the Chandlers in its
grip since shortly after the century began.

This Phillip Goodson offered an excitement that was new to Brett.  It was
part of the policeman, but it was more too.  There was no sense of
predictable sameness to him.  The policeman's difference drew the American
to him; it was that palpable a reality.

"You make very pretty woman," a thickly accented voice pulled Brett from
his revelrie.  He focused on the burly, middle-aged man beside him and
remembered him.  He was Russian and a regular at Illusions.  And his tips
had always been generous.

The American relaxed and prepared to talk about whatever caught the
Russian's attention before he had to go on stage and do his second set.  He
smiled at the man and said: "Thanks.  I really like doing Marlene-"

"I am Ilyich," the man interrupted, taking Brett's hand.  "I have also one
hundred pounds that are yours if you are available tonight, pretty one."

Brett stared at the Russian in surprise.  His first instinct was to put
down the man gently.  Older men just weren't his bag.  Before he could open
his mouth to say the words, however, other thoughts began to flow through
his mind.  He'd never done it for money.  A collage of Aled with some of
his older and greyer tricks formed in his thoughts and he remembered
wondering how the boy could ever get it up with a couple of them.  Tonight
offered him the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity.

Then, too, he'd never had a Russian.  He'd had just about everything else
London had to offer, but never a Russian.

Taking the man up on his offer sure wouldn't be the dull, grey sameness
that Atlanta represented and that he continued to reject every chance he
got.

Brett glanced over at the table where Ilyich had been sitting.  The two
young men were still there, watching them.  "Are we talking just you - or
all three of you?"

Ilyich chuckled.  "I am enough for you, pretty one.  They will find their
own pleasures other than with me tonight."

Brett nodded.  "I'll meet you after I've done this last set, okay?"

Ilyich smiled.  "Do not change from this.  Just bring your other things
along."

"It'll be about an hour then because I am getting out of this make-up
before I go anywhere."  He stepped onto the stage and turned.  "And I am
going to get dinner out of this."

Ilyich guffawed.  "The thinking of sex makes you hungry then?"

"Yeah.  And I haven't eaten since lunch."

* * *

Brett thought the Russian's house was over done.  At least, his living room
was.  Busy - that was the word that definitely fit.  There were too many
chairs for one thing, and the extra couch was too much.  None of the
furniture seemed to match any of the other pieces.  Ilyich came up beside
him and handed him a drink.  "You like my home, yes, pretty one?" he asked
as his fingers touched Brett's arse mounds and spread across them.

The American nodded, hoping Ilyich was simply making conversation rather
than looking for compliments.

"I have the drugs," the Russian said, "if you want them."

"Drugs?"

"The ones that you party boys like so much-" He pointed to a crystal
container on the mantle.  "There is ecstacy.  And I have marijuana and
papers here-" he pointed to the cabinet beside the nearest couch, "in
there."

"I think I'll pass," Brett told him and sipped at his drink.  He wondered
if this was what that good-looking cop was looking for.  It wasn't heroin,
but it sounded like it had possibilities.  He finished his drink and turned
to the Russian.

His arms went around the wide chest and he laid his cheek on the man's
breast.  He was pleasantly surprised that the burly man's stomach was hard
as a rock under his shirt.

"We go to bedroom now, pretty one," said Ilyich.

"The hundred pounds?"

Ilyich laughed and pulled away from Brett.  "You do not know my reputation,
pretty one.  I always pay."  He moved to the same cabinet that he had said
contained his supply of grass, however.  Squatting, he opened it and
quickly pulled out several banknotes.

Returning to stand behind Brett, he folded the money and stuffed it into
the one pocket that the loose trousers contained.  Both of his hands then
began to move across the American's crutch, searching for him through the
material.

Brett leant back against him, surrendering himself to the Russian's
exploration.  He felt his dick stir and relaxed as he imagined that it was
the policeman's hands on him.  He smiled to himself as he realised he was
probably doing the same thing that any boy prostitute did.  Ilyich picked
him up and carried him into the bedroom, and Brett imagined that he was in
Phillip Goodson's arms.

He was already tenting the loose trousers when the Russian sat him on the
edge of the bed and quickly pulled off his shoes.

Ilyich knelt and gently pushed Brett's coat over his shoulders.  He worked
one sleeve and then the other off the boy's arms.  When the Russian had
thrown the coat across the room, his fingers moved to unbutton the
American's blouse.  "Korosho!" he gasped softly as he opened the blouse and
gazed at Brett's chest.  "Yes, you are a pretty one all right.  Very
pretty."  He nodded to himself.  "I enjoy you very much tonight."

As the Russian tossed the blouse onto the coat, Brett stood and moved to
push the elastic waist of his slacks over his backside.

"No, pretty one," Ilyich told him, taking his hands in his own.  "I undress
you.  This I want to do. But, please, do remain standing so that I can do
so."  The man slipped his fingers beneath the waistband and began to push
it onto the boy's shapely arse.

His briefs moved with the slacks over Brett's plump, well-rounded buttocks,
exposing them.  His cock held the fabric to his crutch for several more
moments, until it bent under the pressure and both slacks and pants rushed
down his thighs to his knees.  He imagined that it was the cop from
Illusions undressing him and smiled as his dick sprang out into the air.

"Ah!  It is so petite, pretty one.  My first circumcised one too.  And
small, but most becoming on you," said Ilyich before he leant forward and
kissed the helmet in front of him before swallowing the American's prick.

Behind Brett's closed eyes, it was the cop taking him into his mouth.
Phillip, the boy smiled as he remembered the policeman's name.  He moaned
as his bollocks were nibbled even while his whole dick was buried between
the other man's tonsils.

Ilyich worked Brett's slacks and pants off one leg and then the other,
until he stood nude before him.  Humming, his throat muscles squeezed the
boy's helmet continuously.  His hands moved to knead the American's
arsecheeks.  Brett's pubes were pressed hard against the man's nose.

The Russian moved one hand to the youth's crack, its index finger tracing
the floor of that valley until it found his hole.  Brett felt the pressure
begin to build at his entrance as Ilyich's finger pushed against it.  He
wiggled his buttocks against the man's hand, capturing the finger trying to
enter him and holding it in place.

Ilyich had opened his trousers and got them over his arse to expose
himself.  He pushed hard and his finger went deep into the boy.  Brett
gasped, his bollocks beginning to tighten.  The Russian sensed the boy was
close and reached under the bed with his free hand.  His fingers
immediately found the stash of condoms he kept there and retrieved one.

Brett felt the finger leave his arse and its hand disappear around his leg.
He was close and was no longer keeping track of what the man was doing to
him.  Phillip Goodson was bringing him closer and closer.  He was nearly
there.  He rocked on the balls of his feet, fucking the face in front of
him.  He didn't hear the plastic packet rip behind him.

Ilyich spread the condom across the bulbous head of his dick and pushed it
down over the helmet onto the shaft as he continued to hold the boy's dick
in his throat.  He smiled as the American's bollocks drew up on either side
of his dick.  His finger pushed up roughly through the boy's thighs to find
his hole again and did not hesitate to punch through his entrance again to
reclaim his being.  He was his.

Ilyich shoved him back onto the bed, grabbing both legs and raising them
even as his bottom found the mattress.

Brett felt the finger leave him again; and he was suddenly falling, his
cock pulling away from Phillip's talented mouth just as he felt his orgasm
beginning.  His backside hit the bed behind him just as his first load of
come barrelled through his dick.

Ilyich wasted no time placing his cock at the boy's spasming bumhole,
holding his ankles apart.  His hips lunged forward hard, his wide helmet
spearing through the sphincter.

Brett cried out at the sudden pain that shot through his arse.  He opened
his eyes to watch the burly Russian press himself against his thighs.  His
dick released another geyser of come.  He watched as the man began to pull
his hips back.

The pain was gone quickly, and Brett decided it had been more his body's
shock at the sudden, unlubricated entry than actual pain.  That and the
fact that this man was definitely big in the dick department.  He watched
Ilyich start to fuck him.

It was a strange sensation, almost like being outside his body.  This was
the first time he wasn't immersed totally in the completeness and pleasure
that sex had always been for him.  Instead, he felt nothing; the sex was
being performed on him, not with him.

The Russian ploughed into him, filling him up and stretching his gut.  His
thighs pressed against Brett's arsecheeks, his belly hard against Brett's
thighs, and his pubes scratching Brett's ballsac.  Then he was withdrawing,
his thighs and pubes breaking contact.

The boy's soft cock bounced across his tight belly each time Ilyich slammed
into his arse.  He watched beads of sweat form on the Russian's forehead.
He listened as the man's breathing grew faster and harder until it was
ragged.

He wondered if this was how Aled felt when he was out with a trick.  Aled
or any other prostitute.  Was it just mechanical for them as it was for him
now?  Jesus!  What happens if you have to top? he wondered, catching sight
again of his soft dick bouncing around on his belly.

Like that escort he had given himself on his eighteenth birthday.  Brett
had grown increasingly more interested in gay sex during high school until
it had become an obsession with him.  It was an obsession that he had
satisfied completely the night of his birthday.  It had cost him five
hundred dollars but he had satisfied his curiosity.  And knew finally that
he was gay.

But how had that guy got it up - and kept it up?  He hadn't been any older
than Brett was now but he was hard before his jeans slipped off his hips -
and stayed that way all through that night of his exploration.  He groaned
as Ilyich shoved against him the wrong way.  One thing was sure, though -
he was a lot better looking than this Russian fucking him in the arse.

Maybe not better looking exactly.  Just younger, slimmer, tighter, and
cuter.  That's what turned him on in guys - a young guy with no sagging
skin and with no gut.  Actually, he had to admit that Ilyich was pretty
good looking for an older man.

Brett reached for his soft prick and began to rub the pre-come oozing from
it over its helmet.  He forced himself to concentrate on how the dick
slamming in and out of his arse felt.  He felt his cock begin to erect and
began to wank slowly.

He lay back on the bed and shut his eyes, imagining that it was that
Phillip Goodson ploughing his arse, instead of this man.  He got harder.
His fist on his shaft began to copy the Russian's tempo inside his bumhole.

"Jesus!" he groaned as the entire length of the man's prick massaged his
prostate.  His arse rose up to meet the Russian's thrust.  His arsemuscles
tightened against the dick inside him as it began to witdraw.

His fingers clutched at the duvet and his bollocks tightened.  His other
hand moved on his prick in a synchronised ballet with the pounding that
Ilyich was giving his bum.  "Fuck me!" he cried as his arse rose up to meet
the man's plunging dick.  "Fill me up good!"

Ilyich lifted the boy until only his shoulders and head were still touching
the bed.  Sweat glued his belly to the back of Brett's thighs.  He was
fucking the boy's arse deep with hard and ever faster thrusts.

Brett's breathing was ragged, his bollocks hugged the shaft of his
circumcised cock, and his whole body strained toward his orgasm.  His fist
was a blur as it rode his dick.  His eyes closed tight, he imagined it was
the tall, dark cop from earlier pummelling his arse and bringing him closer
and nearer to orgasm.

He gasped and the first volley of jizz erupted from his helmet.  His
arsemuscles spasmed and gripped the Russian prick that possessed him.  He
felt Ilyich's pole expand, stretching him even wider, as it pulled back
from the depths of his gut.  Then it was slamming back into him, seeking to
bury even deeper into him as the Russian, too, exploded.

Ilyich stood beside the bed, his cock imbedded as deeply into Brett's
arsehole as he could shove it, his belly and chest glued to the boy's legs
as he pumped shot after shot of come into the crossdresser.  Brett felt a
shudder course through the burly, older man pressed against his backside,
even as his own body convulsed again and again from his orgasm.

They remained in their respective positions for long moments as the muscles
of their bodies relaxed, unknotting one by one.  Brett's breathing became
normal first and, with a conscious effort, he began to pull himself off the
prick buried inside him, gripping handsful of duvet to push himself further
onto the bed.

His eyes widened as he began to realise how much cock was still inside him.
He could now see Ilyich's pubes and the base of his prick between his legs.
Yet, his gut felt stretched all the way up to his navel.  Slowly, he pushed
further onto the bed, using his elbows to gain more traction.  He stared at
the growing length of Russian prick that was becoming exposed between his
thighs.  "How big is that thing?" he groaned.

The Russian guffawed.  "You felt it, pretty one.  It is big enough, yes?"

"Jesus!" Brett groaned as he stared disbelievingly at more than half a foot
of hard cock now visible between his legs.  "You fucked me with that?"  His
arsemuscles still gripped several more inches imbedded in him.

"You belong to Ilyich now, pretty one," said the Russian as he pulled the
rest of his prick out of Brett's arse.  He sat on the bed then and, taking
a deep breath, rolled the condom slowly off himself.  He tossed it
carelessly toward the wall.

"I belong to nobody," Brett answered and sat up.  It felt like he still had
Ilyich's monster in him.

"Tonight, pretty one, you do.  I have paid for you."

The American turned his gaze from the man's prick to his face, not liking
the direction this conversation was taking.  Ilyich lay on his back with
his eyes closed.  "Let's understand something here," Brett said, the hint
of steel beneath the soft drawl of his voice.  "I belong to nobody.  I
don't do anything that I don't want to."

Ilyich opened his eyes and studied the American for a moment.  "I pay for
you, pretty one - in Russia, you become mine."

"This is England, and I don't need your money.  You want it back?  I'll
give it to you."

"Did I fuck you well?"  Brett shrugged.  "You still feel me inside you,
filling you up, yes?"

"Yeah."

"And you would take the fucking I already give you without the money?"
Brett nodded again.  "Then accept I give you two more times like this one
tonight.  We part tomorrow, you with your one hundred pounds - and you no
longer belong to me.  Tonight, we fuck and I fill you up."

Okay, Brett told himself.  It doesn't sound like we're getting into some
kind of dominating thing after all.  It seems like we walked into a
linguistic misunderstanding.  All he wants is a night of partying and
that's what I agreed to.  His gaze moved back to the Russian's prick and he
was surprised to find it was still tumescent.  Two or three more bouts with
that thing is all I'm doing, he told himself.  That's what I signed on for.
He smiled tightly to himself.  And I'll bet I'm going to be sore as hell
for the next couple of days because of it.

"You like good sex, pretty one?"

"Yeah.  But I like it on my terms, not anybody else's."

"Your terms?"

"I want it when I want it.  I don't want to have to fuck somebody I don't
want to or when I don't feel like it."

"But you take my money-"

"On a lark, man.  I wondered how it felt to be a rentboy, a prostitute.  I
don't think I like it."

"You do not want me to fuck you?"

Brett looked back up at the man's face, meeting his gaze and deciding to be
totally honest.  "You're not my type, Ilyich - not the type of guy who I
want to go to bed with.  The sort of man who gets me horny just thinking of
going to bed with him."  He shook his head slowly as he worked through his
own thinking.  "But you give one hell of a fuck.  You've got real staying
power."  He chuckled.  "I guess you could say that I'm looking forward to
the rest of the night - as long as that's all that you want to do with me."

"But you would not want me again?"

"I don't know, Ilyich."  The American frowned.  "Maybe.  It would depend on
how I felt at the moment it came up.  I just don't like to feel obligated
to have sex with anybody.  You paid me to have sex with you tonight.  I
think that I'm finding out that I don't like the obligations that go with
the pay, even if it turns out I like the job okay."

The Russian chuckled, his hand finding his prick.  "Then, you will not be a
whore again after tonight.  Would you like to go to the country this
weekend?"

"The country?" Brett asked as he watched the Russian slowly slide his
foreskin around on his helmet.

"My government's dacha in Sussex.  There will be pretty boys and handsome
men - Russian and English both.  You would enjoy-"

"Not if I felt I had to have sex with any of them, I wouldn't."

"You will be free to choose what you do, pretty one.  No one will make you
do anything."

"Why are you inviting me to this party, Ilyich?"

"Ah, yes!  The bee in the borscht."  Brett waited, unable to take his gaze
from the man's now fully erected prick.  "You will entertain us-"

"I just said-"

"As your pretty chanteuse from the stage tonight.  Only that.  Anything
more is your decision."

Brett forced his eyes from the man's dick and thought about his invitation.
It could be fun.  It could also be a very bad scene, if this Ilyich was
setting him up.  "I'll go out to Sussex with you guys - but I want to
invite a few of my friends to go along.  Is that okay with you?"

"To protect you, yes?" the Russian laughed.

"To keep the playing field levelled - just in case."

Ilyich nodded his agreement.  "Invite them then.  I give you directions in
the morning before you leave and will have a car waiting for you when you
arrive."

"Where are your condoms?" Brett asked, surrendering to his growing interest
in the man's hard cock.  "That thing in your hand needs attention again."

The Russian guffawed.  "And your arse doesn't?"  He sat up and felt under
the bed for a foil packet.

"I want to ride you this time," said Brett as he took the condom from the
man's fingers.  His hand went to Ilyich's chest and he started to gently
push him down onto the bed.  "Just lie back and leave the driving to me."

The condom stretched as Brett placed it across the tip of the Russian's
dick.  It was stretched so thin that the American thought it might break
before he got it rolled down to cover just the flange at the bottom of the
helmet.  He wondered how his sphincter had ever been able to open for
something as big as the Russian's dick.

That had been earlier, though.  Now, he was stretched open enough he was
sure he could take anything.  Not that he wanted to try, he reminded
himself as he took just the Russian's latex-covered helmet into his mouth
and wet it down with his tongue.  He wanted to take this prick, to feel it
inside him and banging his joybutton.  That was what this night was all
about - pure, unadulterated sex.

Brett pushed himself up to his knees then and smiled at Ilyich as he
straddled his belly.  Reaching beneath his own spread legs, he took the
Russian's sheathed dick and placed it against the entrance to his hole.
Ilyich made to hump up into him, but Brett raised his arse.  "No," he said,
wagging his finger at the man under him.  "I want to enjoy this from the
beginning.  So, I do it, okay?"

Ilyich nodded and Brett lowered himself until the tip of the wide cock was
again pressed against his entrance.  The boy smiled down at the Russian.
"Here we go," he said.

He was surprised at how tight he still was as his sphincter resisted the
helmet pushing against his backdoor.  He had thought the earlier fuck would
have left him wide open.  Concentrating, he willed his arse to open.  He
almost pulled back up as the cockhead began to penetrate him but resisted
that impulse, slowing his descent instead.

Sweat beaded on his forehead and he felt clammy as he lowered himself
further, half of the Russian cockhead inside him.  He was too full.  He was
stretching too wide.  He was going to be ripped apart.  His prick began to
lose interest, nesting in the man's belly hair between his spread legs.

Brett took a deep breath and sat down hard, his legs spreading wide on
either side of the Russian's hard belly.  He groaned as the full helmet
passed into him, followed by inches of thick, vein-gnarled shaft.  He felt
Ilyich's pubes scratching the tender skin between his hole and his balls.
"Give me a moment to get used to you being there again," he gasped.

He was full.  Oh, Lordy!  Was he full.  But there was no pain.  Brett
tentatively wiggled his bottom around the column impaling him and across
the pubes scratching him.  His dick came back to life, rising off the
Russian's belly and jutting straight out between his spread legs.  He
smiled seductively as he began to grind against the man's crutch.  "Yeah!"
he whispered.

Brett surrendered to the sexual imperative that sought to drive him and
began slowly to fuck himself on Ilyich's big cock.  His eyes closed, his
hand moving on his own dick, wanking it, he immediately had the policeman
replacing the Russian under him.  It was Phillip Goodson who was shagging
him.  It was again Phillip Goodson who was giving him this sexual high from
which he never wanted to come down.

Ilyich's big hands rode his hips, directing Brett's movement on his prick.
But they were Phillip's hands and the policeman's dick in the boy's mind as
pleasure became one continuous wave crashing through him.  The tempo inside
him remained steady, restrained by the hands guiding him.  But his own
wanking grew frenzied as the pleasure coursing through became a demanding
need for release.

Brett cried out and he was blowing his load.  He imagined each volley
splattering against the cop's smiling face as Phillip took over the shag as
his hands held Brett in position.

The fuck continued on slowly.  The dick speared his arse repeatedly,
roughly riding over his joyspot, and pushed easily into him, even as his
arsemuscles spasmed around it in the aftermath of his orgasm.  A wiry bed
of pubic hair scratched at his tender bottom.  It pulled out, massaging his
prostate.  Pressure began to build within him again.

Brett's dick had remained tumescent, and it again erected.  Pleasure
coursed through him, but more slowly now - and he rode the wave of
pleasure, blocking out every other thought.  His hands dangled at his side
as he allowed his partner to possess him completely.

The shag became harder and faster, and Brett was right there with it.  His
body stiffened as the need to reach orgasm crash through him.  His bollocks
rode his shaft tightly and his dick engorged with even more blood that he
could shoot his load - even as the prick inside him did the same.

He was pulled hard against Ilyich's crutch as he released the first volley
of his second orgasm of the night.  "Da!  Korosho!" the Russian beneath him
cried out.

* * *

In the taxi to his flat in Soho the next morning, Brett Chandler opened his
wallet and pulled out Inspector Phillip Goodson's card, tracing the raised
letter's of the man's name with his fingertip.  He wondered if the
policeman could be talked into going to this weekend in the country shindig
the Russian had invited him to.  Having a cop with him would surely be
protection enough against any ideas Ilyich and his guests might get about
him.

He could take Richard Bell with him.  If everything was as above-board as
Ilyich had promised, the two of them could put on a duet for the man's
party.  It might get them both some paying gigs.  Only, he wanted Phillip
to join them too.

He wanted Phillip Goodson inside him, filling him up. And it didn't matter
at all that his arsehole was stretched and sore from the workout the
Russian had given it during the night.  He smiled to himself.  Just
thinking of the man put him into a state of serious horniness.

He couldn't remember a time he'd been as hot for anyone as he was for the
cop he'd seen around gay London most of the past year and had finally met
last night.  If the man was good in bed and could still excite him after
they'd had sex, he'd seriously consider monogamy.  That was how hot he was
for him.

After he'd paid the driver and started up the steps to his building, Brett
decided he might be ready to settle down.  But only if Phillip Goodson
could keep his interest up.  He wasn't going to sink into the same
blandness his parents existed in, not with anybody.  Not ever.