Welcome back to Inspector Goodson's search through the gay, seamier underworld of London in search for heroin distributors. I hope you're enjoying his explorations.
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Brett Chandler stood beside the small stage and watched the two Britons leave the club. He licked his rouged lips at the thought of Philip Goodson. The man was the promise of something good. Something really good.
It wasn't so much that Philip was good-looking. He was handsome all right, 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 had always been when he was growing up in Atlanta and was would be again when he returned to that world.
Predictable -- the bland sameness -- as it had been all through school before he'd been accepted at the University of London. As it had been before he escaped from it. St. Andrew's Boys Academy, the family home on West Paces Ferry two doors from the Governor's Mansion, the lovely girls with honeysuckle in their voices and nothing for brains his folks wanted him to date. He had done everything a boy from a rich, influential Georgia family should do. He always had.
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 had still been planning his student days at Emory where he would pledge the same fraternity his father and grandfather had. 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 the twentieth century began.
This Philip Goodson offered an excitement that was new to Brett. Part of it was his being a policeman; but there was more to it, too. There was no sense of predictable sameness to him. The policeman's differentness drew Brett to him; it was that palpable a reality.
'You make very pretty woman,' a thickly accented voice pulled Brett from his reverie. He focused on the burly, middle-aged man beside him and remembered him. He was Russian and a regular at Illusions. His tips had always been generous.
The American relaxed and prepared himself to talk about whatever had the Russian's attention before he had to 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 he'd brought with him from Atlanta.
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 without me tonight.'
Brett nodded. 'I'll meet you after I've done this last set, OK?'
Ilyich smiled. 'Do not change from this. Just bring your other things along.'
'It'll still be about an hour after the set 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 word 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 need them."
'Drugs?' Brett thought instantly of Philip Goodson and his police investigation.
'The ones that you party boys like so much...' He pointed to a crystal container on the mantel. 'There is ecstasy. I also have marijuana and papers...' 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 Philip 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.
Brett didn't move. 'The hundred pounds?' he asked.
The Russian laughed. 'You don't know me, little one,' he said. 'I always pay.' He knelt at the same cabinet he'd said contained his supply of grass, however. 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 of Brett's loose trousers. Both of his hands then began to move across the front of the American's trousers, searching for him through the material.
Brett leant back against him, surrendering himself to the Russian's exploration. He stirred 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 street boy did. Ilyich picked him up and carried him into the bedroom. Brett imagined that he was in Philip Goodson's arms.
The Russian sat him on the edge of the bed and quickly pulled off his shoes before pushing Brett's coat over his shoulders. He worked one sleeve and then the other off the boy's arms. When he 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 smooth 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 trousers 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 pull it onto the boy's arse.
Brett's briefs moved with the trousers over his buttocks, exposing them. His cock held the fabric to his crutch for several more moments, until it bent under the pressure and both trousers and pants rushed down his thighs to his knees. He imagined that it was the cop undressing him and smiled as his dick sprang out into the air.
'Ah! It is so petite, pretty one. My first circumcised one too. Small, but most becoming on you,' said Ilyich and leant forward and kissed the helmet in front of him before swallowing the American's prick. Brett moaned as lips nibbled his bollocks even while his whole dick was buried between the other man's tonsils.
He wasn't happy that the burly man before him was commenting on how small he was. He wasn't that small! His dick was a little more than five inches. But it was definitely smaller than those of the guys he'd had sex with.
He decided he wouldn't say anything to the Russian. He figured such put-downs were probably pretty standard for rent boys like Alan. And he was curious to experience what they went through with a trick. He knew that this would be the last time he'd ever sell himself.
Ilyich worked Brett's trousers 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 his 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 back 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 opened his own 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 American 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. In his fantasy, Philip 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.
Ilyich spread the condom across the 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 Brett 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 Philip'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 to consume him. He opened his eyes to see the burly Russian press himself against his thighs. His dick released another geyser of come.
The pain quickly disappeared, 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 as Ilyich started 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 bowels. His thighs pressed against Brett's arsecheeks, his belly hard against Brett's thighs, and his pubes scratching Brett's ball sack. Then he was withdrawing, his thighs and pubes breaking contact.
Brett'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 happened if you had to top? he wondered, catching sight again of his soft dick bouncing around on his belly.
Like that escort he had given himself as his eighteenth birthday present.
Brett had grown increasingly more interested in gay sex during high school until it had become almost an obsession with him. 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 he'd known 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 over 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 -- the escort had been a lot better looking than this Russian fucking him now. There sex had been hot.
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. His cock began to erect and he began to wank slowly.
He lay back on the bed and shut his eyes, imagining that it was Philip 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 withdraw.
The fingers of his free hand 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 American'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 towards his orgasm. His fist was a blur as it rode his dick. His eyes closed tight; and 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 his jizz erupted. 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 bowels. Then it was slamming back into him, seeking to burrow 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 American's legs as he pumped shot after shot of come into the crossdresser.
Brett felt shudders 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 handfuls of duvet to pull 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 what had to be several more inches still imbedded in him.
'You belong to Ilyich now, pretty one,' said the Russian as he sat on the edge of the bed. His cock was flaccid but still thick.
'I belong to nobody,' Brett answered and sat up.
'Tonight, pretty one, you do. I have paid for you.'
Brett looked up at the man's face, not liking the direction the conversation was taking. 'Let's understand something here,' he 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. Or anybody. Ever.'
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?' Ilyich asked.
'You still feel me inside you, filling you up, yes?'
'And you would take the fucking I already give you without the money?' the Russian asked suspiciously.
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 will no longer belong to me. Tonight, you are mine.'
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. 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.'
'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. I wondered how it felt to be a street boy, 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 whom 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 as Ilyich began to inflate. '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. 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 that I like the job okay.'
The Russian chuckled. 'Then, you will not be a whore again after tonight. Would you like to go to the country this weekend?'
'The country?' Brett asked and glanced at the fully erected Russian tower.
'My government's dacha in Selsey. There will be pretty boys and handsome men -- Russian and English both. You would enjoy...'
'Not if I felt like 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.'
Brett's suspicions weren't that easily dismissed. 'Why are you inviting me to this party, Ilyich?' he asked.
'Ah, yes! The bee in the borscht.'
Brett waited as he watched the Russian's hard cock throb.
'You will entertain us...'
'I just said...'
'As your pretty chanteuse from the stage tonight. Only that. Anything more is your decision.'
Brett thought about the 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 Selsey with you guys -- but I want to invite a few of my friends to come 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 and moved his hand down to his hard pole. 'Invite them then. I give you directions in the morning before you leave and will have a car waiting for you in Selsey 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 he saw this night being about -- pure, unadulterated sex. He no longer wanted to be a voyeur to his own sexual coupling.
Brett pushed himself up to his knees then and smiled at Ilyich as he straddled the Russian's 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. He smiled down at the Russian. 'Here we go,' he said.
Brett 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, its tip 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 helmet burrowed 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 ever more full!
Still, 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 grinned as he began to grind against the man's crutch. 'Yeah!' he whispered.
Brett surrendered to the sexual imperative that had begun to drive him and started to fuck himself on Ilyich's big cock. His eyes closed, his hand moving on his own dick, wanking it. Instantly, the policeman replaced the Russian under him. It was Philip Goodson who was shagging him. It was Philip Goodson who was giving him this sexual high from which he never wanted to come down.
Big hands rode his hips, directing Brett's movement on the prick inside him. They were Philip's hands and the policeman's dick in the American's mind as pleasure became one continuous wave crashing through him. The tempo inside him remained steady, maintained by the hands guiding his body. His wanking grew frenzied as the pleasure coursing through became a demanding need for release.
Brett cried out as he blew his load. Each volley splattering against the cop's smiling face as Philip took over the shag, the cop's hands holding him in position.
The fuck continued. The dick speared his arse repeatedly and pushed easily into him, roughly riding over his prostate, even as his arsemuscles spasmed around it in the aftermath of his orgasm. A wiry bed of pubic hair scratched at his tender bottom. Pressure began to build within him again.
Brett's dick again erected. Pleasure coursed through him, more slowly now -- and he rode the wave of pleasure, blocking out every other thought. His hands dangled at his side as he allowed the Russian 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 another orgasm crash through him. His bollocks rode his shaft and his dick engorged with even more blood so that he could shoot his load -- even as the prick inside him did the same.
He was pulled hard against Ilyich's crutch as Ilyich 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 Philip Goodson's card, tracing the raised letters 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 Ilyich had invited him to. Having a cop with him ought to be protection enough against any ideas the Russian 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 Philip to join them too.
He wanted Philip 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. He smiled to himself. Just thinking of the policeman 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.
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 Philip Goodson could keep him interested. He wasn't going to sink into the same blandness his parents -- everybody he knew back home -- existed in, not with anybody. Not ever.