This story is gay fiction. It is copyrighted and cannot be reproduced in any medium without my express permission. If you are a minor in your country of origin, don't read.

I have another series running on Nifty: Taylor Mountain in the scifi folder. If these two stories don't give you enough hot vampires and mortals, Starbooks has just released my LOVERS WHO STAY WITH YOU, and that has 28 tales that'll have you offering your neck to the next guy who offers to lick it. <G> You can help Nifty by using its link to A Different Light Bookstore when ordering this book.

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Dave MacMillan





Richard woke to the feeling that he was not alone. He opened his eyes, slowly taking in the brightly sunlit room. He smiled as he saw Yorstovitch and Myransky standing on either side of his bed. The muscles in his bum pulsed to memories of the repeated fuckings he'd got from Maxim the night before.

He knew these two; he'd partied with them before. He was instantly tumescent and growing harder. His smile grew wider. They were rough but had staying power when it came to sex. And, from what he'd seen at the table last night, they had most of the guys here for the weekend under their thumbs too. He wondered how many cocks he could take in one day. He shivered in anticipation of finding out.

'Fancy seeing you two this early in the morning,' he said brightly.

Myransky smiled down at him, his hand descending to Richard's crutch. Yorstovitch grinned at the wet spot that was spreading across the sheet. 'You are interested, yes?'

Richard threw the sheet back, leaving only his waist covered and never breaking eye-contact with the blond Russian. 'Very interested. Why don't you lads join me?' He patted the mattress beside him as Myransky's hand began to wank him slowly through the sheet.

'We have a dungeon set up in the cellar,' Yorstovitch told him, making no move to the bed. 'We thought you might join us there.'

Richard frowned slightly. Rough was okay, and he'd done enough of that with these two. But he'd never got into bondage and domination with them. That, he'd kept to just his closest fans at Illusions and then only after he knew them well.

He caught movement in the blond Russian's jeans and his attention was riveted to the man's crotch as a thick tube began to snake across his groin towards his hip. Myransky had pulled the sheet down Richard's legs and the Irishman felt his cock being surrounded by hot wetness. He looked down to find the Russian's face buried in his pubes.

Myransky pulled off of him and stood. Richard looked up at him and he smiled. 'You will have all of it in the dungeon,' the brunette Russian told him and smiled.

His mind made up for him, Richard sat and slipped his legs over the side of the mattress. His finger traced the tube now spread across the front of Yorstovitch's jeans and he looked up at him.

'Downstairs,' the blond Russian told him, smiling back at him. 'Come.' He took Richard's hand and pulled him to his feet.

Richard started towards his bag but Yorstovitch didn't release his arm.

'Let me get presentable,' he explained as the blond Russian's free hand spread across his bare bum. Myransky came around the bed and took Richard's cock in his hand, peeling the foreskin back off his knob-end. He bent over and licked it. Richard shivered.

'Come,' Myransky said as he stood back up, his hand a fist gripping the Irishman's pole. 'I want this.'

'And I want this,' Yorstovitch said and kneaded the nearest of Richard's arsecheeks. 'I want you to ride me, English -- like a Cossack galloping across the steppes.'

Richard remembered that Aled was dead as he started to follow Myransky with Yorstovitch close behind him. Guilt was a swell that threatened to wash over him then. These two could be his mate's murderers.

He resisted the guilt. It was just sex, after all. Just like last night. Just like the train ride out to Selsey. The whole bloody house reeked of men pleasuring men. The weekend, so far, was nothing but one big orgy. One that included these two in its vanguard.

Aled had never been one to deny himself an opportunity when it presented itself. The Welshman would have been hopping every bone available, if he was here. Why shouldn't he? He smiled as he convinced himself to have all the sex he could have in his friend's memory.

* * *

Brett and I strolled with Patel and Yorston beyond the outbuildings. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, the sun was directly over us, and we were blessed with a slight breeze. It was a beautiful English summer day.

Normally, I would solicit each of their reports in turn before I made any comments about what I might have learnt. But my companions were Brett who was untrained in gathering evidence and two men barely out of training college.

'It would appear,' I told them, 'that neither Maxim or Pyotr are involved in anything illegal.'

'That was a pretty horrible story Pyotr told last night,' Brett offered uninvited. 'It sounded almost like something out of Chicago in the twenties with Elliot Ness and Al Capone.'

I noticed that he had both Patel's and Yorston's undivided attention then. I sought to plough on with our brainstorming session with them. 'There is something definitely illegal going on here -- drugs, definitely. It almost certainly is our heroin source. Mick confirmed that the English lads here are selling it. He also fingered Ilyich and the two remaining Russians as the suppliers.'

'Myransky and Yorstovitch,' groaned young Yorston.

'What about this Al Capone and Chicago?' Patel demanded, allowing his curiosity to come to the fore.

I decided to allow Brett to make that aspect of what should be my in-put. I already suspected it would be far dicier than I could make it.

The American remained faithful to Pyotr's basic story of last night but adlibbed enough implied threats and gangland-styled killings to tart it up to the point that I barely recognised it.

'Christ!' Yorston mumbled and shook his head slowly. 'Whatever happened to that dictatorship they had? I thought that people who lived in that kind of society were supposed to be docile and stuff.'

'What about you two?' I asked quickly, seeking to fend off this conference devolving into a wild storytelling fest. 'Did either of you become involved in anything that's relevant?'

'I didn't get anything worth repeating,' Patel said and looked over to his lover. 'But Yorston did. He's still feeling the effects of it.'

'What happened?' I demanded turning to study the man closely. I realised then that he was pale. Looking more closely, I saw perspiration beaded on his forehead. 'Officer Yorston, I want a full report this moment and don't leave a bloody thing out!'

He told his tale of how he'd paired off with Myransky and four of his mates after Patel had left with Yorstovitch. His group had brought out a pipe of hash and he'd taken a couple of tokes from it.

'You don't get this sort of reaction from hashish, Yorston,' I told him, pointing at the beads of perspiration and his pasty colour. 'Go on, but you can pass over the sex.' I grinned. 'We know it happened.'

'After the daisy chain, somebody passed around a second pipe. Only it wasn't cannabis this time. I was lethargic almost immediately. With cannabis, a lad feels lethargic yet on top of the world, I just felt drugged. I only remember movement after that.' He looked away, his eyes unfocused. 'I think they all shagged me -- the lot of them. Probably repeatedly. But I passed out pretty early into it.' He shook his head as if to clear it. 'When I woke, I still had my erection and my belly was covered with jizz.'

'He said he climbed up to our bedroom like a man drunk,' Patel added, watching his lover carefully. 'Holding onto the banister, barely keeping his feet as he made it across the hall to the staircase.'

'I don't think I'd make a very good drug addict,' Yorston offered with a forced laugh.

'I think we need to stay together until tomorrow,' said I, looking from one to the other of them. 'I don't want any of us getting into something we can't control and what happened to Yorston could happen to any of us. We've got enough on these men to arrest them. We don't need to endanger ourselves...' I remembered our young Irishman then. 'And where the bloody hell is Richard?' I growled.

'He wasn't at breakfast,' Patel observed.

'I know,' I answered.

'Looks like we're getting company,' observed Brett looking back at the house. We all turned to see Pyotr making his way towards us.

'Are you sure he's safe?' Yorston asked.

I shook my head slowly. 'He's not part of their drug operation, but he may well see himself as one of them if it gets down to us-versus-them.'

'Great,' Patel groaned. 'Why don't we just arrest them and have done with it?'

'Did you see the Russian flag in front when we drove up?' I asked. 'This estate has the same immunity their embassy in London does. No Englishman may enter without their permission.' I shrugged. 'Besides, we have one incident of possible heroin use here and inadmissible knowledge of its distribution. We don't want an international incident on that sort of basis, lads.'

Pyotr had drawn close to us and we waited silently for him to arrive. He grinned as he joined us. 'You walk too far,' he groused. 'And I am out of shape after only three months here.'

'What are you doing? Getting away from the hard work of cleaning that bugger?' Yorston asked, glancing back at the house.

'I wish,' the young Russian groaned. 'Ilyich sent me. He wants Brett to put on his show this afternoon and imagines that he will need to practise.'

'I thought I'd have Richard in the show,' Brett told him. 'Have you seen him around?'

Pyotr shook his head slowly. 'His bed was slept in last night, but he was not there when I went to wake him for breakfast. I have not seen him since.'

'There's not much practise needed if it's just me,' Brett mumbled.

'One of the English would like to join your revuë, as would I,' Pyotr said, his face flushing. 'If you will permit this, I mean ... I have never done it but would like to try.'

'Has this other lad?'

'I do not know. I think not, however.'

'Sweet Lord!' Brett growled audibly. Squaring his shoulders, he said: 'Well, there's nothing but to do it ... Come on, Pyotr, show me our stage for today.' He took the Russian by the elbow and they started off towards the house together.

Patel watched them until they were out of earshot. 'I've got a gut feeling we need to get our arses out of here, mates. And that doesn't mean hanging around to watch a drag show.'

'I think we should head in, too,' I told them. 'I want you two to stay close to Brett.'

'He won't like that, Inspector,' Patel said quickly.

'Think of a reason then. If you stay together, there's less chance of anything happening to any of you.'

'And what about you, Inspector?" Yorston said. "Four's better than three when it comes to numbers.'

'I want to find Richard. Then, we'll join you.'

I followed slowly after my three companions and young Pyotr. I did not feel in control of events around me and that made me uncomfortable.

I didn't know that much about Richard Bell and had even been mildly surprised at him giving vent to his sexual desires on the train out to Selsey and his blatant interest in Maxim. Still, I felt it unlike him to have disappeared before breakfast and not tell any of us. And I didn't like by half that PC Yorston had been drugged, probably with heroin.

I had enough evidence of drug distribution to make a case for a more complete investigation. I had enough evidence to question the English lads here today. And any Russians who didn't hold diplomatic immunity.

Instinct told me that we had learnt enough to end this operation. It told me to gather up my four companions and get our arses to an English police force. There were five of us and eleven of them; I could not expect Pyotr or Maxim to stand against their countrymen -- even if I was fairly certain they were not involved in drug distribution. And I knew those numbers to be poor odds in any one's book.

Firstly, though, I had to find Richard Bell. As I trudged alone towards the house, I allowed my fears to surface. Richard had not come to breakfast; he had left his room sometime earlier. If Ilyich and his crowd had learnt our purpose, the Irish lad could well be in danger. He was single whilst the rest of us had a partner; he was the most exposed member of our group -- thus, the first of us to be taken down.

I gazed at the house before me and wondered where Ilyich's men would have hidden one young lad whose main goal in life seemed to be satisfying his libido. It was big and there were so many places to secret one young man. I found myself hoping the Irish lad was still alive.

'Start at the bottom and go up,' I said to myself as I reached the terrace. 'One bloody step at a time -- like procedures call for.'

I entered the lounge, moved directly to the redesigned hall and started looking for the stairs down to the cellar. They proved easy to find; the door to them had been left slightly ajar. I started down them slowly, making as little noise as possible.

The cellar was dim, a gloom permanently settled over it. No overheads were turned on, and the only light was the sunlight making its way through the grimy casement windows at the top of the stone walls. I shuddered as I thought of spider webs.

The moment my feet touched the stone floor, I heard a sound I quickly decided was a flog hitting bare skin. I recognised it well enough from the few times I'd visited the S&M scene. I placed the sound as having come from deeper into the cellar ahead of me. What I waited for and didn't hear was the invariable cry or, at least, whimper I'd come to expect from the slave in such a situation.

Suspecting that I had found Richard already and not liking the suspicions that brought to mind, I gritted my teeth and began to move towards the end of the cellar where I thought the party was being held.

Turning a corner, I saw light framing an open doorway ahead of me. I heard heavily accented voices and guessed that Ilyich's two confederates were in the room. I wondered if I should backtrack and have Patel and Yorston join me but immediately rejected the thought. Despite my dark suspicions, I had no evidence of anything untowards taking place. The five of us had been well-treated and I had seen nothing that indicated that was going to change. As I forged on, I told myself that it was just the cellar gloom playing on my instincts.

I approached the lit room carefully, making sure I was not seen. And that I was alone on my side of the door.

A bank of overhead lights lit the room brightly. There were chains connected to hooks in the ceiling and manacles on the far wall. Against the sidewall opposite me, I saw a long table covered with S&M implements -- whips of difference sizes and shapes, dildoes, handcuffs and other restraints.

In the centre of the room was another table, this one covered with either leather or a textured plastic. A naked young man lay on his stomach on it. Fresh welts covered his back, buttocks and thighs. The large handle of a dildo pressed against the bottom of his arsecheeks. I knew he was Richard from his matted shock of sweaty ginger hair. I saw that he was not restrained but was not moving either.

'He's passed out again,' the blond at Richard's head growled.

The brunette at his feet nodded. 'You gave him a big dose. He's probably gone now, Yorstovitch.'

I knew that this was not a S&M event then. I also wished that I had gone back to get Patel and Yorston when I'd thought about it.

'I wanted to know how much the police knew before...' the blond looked down at Richard in disgust. 'Bastard!'

'The one in London told us that they suspected us before he died. This one has confirmed it.'

I knew that the Irish lad was either dead or dying then -- with heroin as the murder weapon. I also knew what had happened to Aled -- and that we had walked into a trap. I started to turn. My thoughts on getting Brett and my two lads off of the estate before anything happened to them.

'Do not leave, Inspector Goodson,' Ilyich told me, the barrel of a pistol jabbing me in the small of the back. 'Please, go inside and let us join the others.'

* * *

Sergeant Trell stepped into Inspector Goodson's office and went directly to his desk. They'd driven straight up from Wales. Conspiciously in the centre of the top of the desk was a folder marked 'Heroin Deaths -- Gay Clubs'.

The inspector's so good about being organised, Trell thought to himself and smiled as he opened the folder.

His eyelids heavy with lack of sleep, Shep Simon stood before the desk and watched the heavy-set police detective skim through the report. There was a decisiveness to Ian Trell's actions that was new, a sense of power and competence. The American yawned as he compared the man before him now with the same man he'd met barely a week earlier. That man had been a mouse; this one was a lion. He nodded and smiled to himself -- walking Ian Trell out of the closet had done wonders for him and how he saw himself.

Trell flipped through the report, skipping over the early happenings in the case. He already knew about those. It was only the last part of the past week of Goodson's activities that he didn't know about. He flipped through more pages until he found the report of the last boy they'd pulled out of the river Thames on Thursday.

Inspector Goodson had known him. A Welsh lad who was a medical student at University Hospital. Goodson wasn't willing to accept that the boy had been a heroin addict who overdosed. Neither were his informants.

Trell sat back in the chair, staring at the wall across from him. Another one? Merciful God! He forced himself to return to the report.

'He's gone to Selsey on the south coast,' he said out loud as he read. 'Him and the two young uniforms he asked for. And two students at uni.'

He found the report on the Russian estate that the Inspector had got from the county. He nodded. 'Damned good information,' he said out loud. 'Everything I need to find them.'

'Have you got a phone number too, Ian?' Shep asked quietly from across the desk.

'What for?'

'You're thinking of going in like the cavalry in an old Western movie. You'd better know that your boy isn't sitting around drinking gin and tonics and enjoying the weather when you do.'

Trell studied his friend for a moment and tried to organise his thoughts. 'Right,' he said finally, accepting that Shep had the right of it once again. 'I'll call directory enquiries and get a number.'

Ten minutes later, he was surprised at how quickly British Telecom gave him the unlisted number of one of their subscribers. Cheerfully even. He didn't permit himself to think about it. He dialled the number.

It took only a minute for the gruff, older accented voice to tell him that there was no Philip Goodson there, that the estate was a retreat for Russian government employees, and that only the staff was present at that time. He hung up the telephone and sat back in Goodson's chair again. He told Shep what had been said.

'What're you going to do, Ian?' the American asked.

'I should report this to CID...'

'And how long before they do something?'

'It'd be Monday before there'd be anyone in who could make a decision.'

'If your boy is in as deep shit as you think he is, that's too late.'

Trell nodded. 'But there isn't anything else I can do. CID is keen on following procedure -- the chain of command and all that.'

'And Goodson and the guys with him will be long dead.'

Trell frowned and sat forward again. He dialled a number and was immediately ordering a helicopter to Chichester on Inspector Philip Goodson's authority.

'Better call Chichester to let them know you're coming,' Shep told him as Trell stood up.

'We are coming,' he growled. 'You're going with me, Yank.' He called Chichester.