Strangers Off the Street

by Habu

26 Feb 2018 2577 readers Score 9.0 (46 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt


“How is Brandon? I hope he is well.”

That was the first thing Diego Medina said to Brett Williams upon meeting him in the arrivals area of the Barcelona-El Prat airport.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Brett answered. “I haven’t seen him for six months or more. I’ve been in London. I haven’t been in New York for more than a year. You two are business partners, so I probably would be asking you how my father was, if I were interested in knowing how he was.”

Medina had found out what he wanted to know without directly asking if the young man standing before him—stylishly dressed, impeccably groomed, sexy, and a very attractive platinum blond of barely twenty years—was still estranged from his father, Brandon Williams, the American director of the electronics corporation for which Medina held down the Spanish holdings. Since Medina left the next day for a corporate meeting in New York himself, he wouldn’t have to mention to the father now that Brett was in his Barcelona flat. It also gave Medina an idea of how far he could go with the young man without worrying about how his business partner would take it.

“It is good of you to occupy my flat for me for the two weeks I’ll be gone,” Medina said.

“It’s my pleasure,” Brett answered, taking a good look at the Spaniard, who was his father’s age—almost fifty, if not a bit beyond, but who had taken better care of himself than Brett’s father had. He was a good-looking man—heavy, but more to be described as solid. His body was in the right proportions if a little stocky. He dressed expensively, with casual elegance, with a silk shirt open enough down the front to show a gold medallion on a chain and brownish-gray curly chest hair. His head hair was wavy, and he had his sunglasses perched there and a cashmere sweater draped on his back, the arms tied at his chest, in a fashion that was out of style everywhere but, on him, looked very continental and classic. His hands were expressive and didn’t stop long enough for Brett to count the number of gold rings he displayed.

If it might be thought that Brett was checking the Spaniard out as a possible sex partner, he was. Brett was highly sexed. He had very low standards, but he wouldn’t have to lower them for Medina.

“I could use the vacation and I hate the dreariness of London in this season,” Brett continued, as Medina’s chauffeur took his bag from him and he and Medina followed the driver out to the hourly parking area. Medina placed a hand on the small of Brett’s back and chatted as they walked.

Brett took the possessive gesture in the vein in which it was extended, and Medina clearly could feel Brett tense immediately but then relax under the pressure of the hand.

“I hope you aren’t too tired. I want to show you my favorite restaurant tonight and then I wish to introduce you to some of my friends who can help show you Barcelona and keep you from being bored while I’m gone. You do play billiards, don’t you?”

“I play pool,” Brett answered.

“We’ll be happy to help you transcend over to the more gentlemanly sport. I understand that you have moved significantly up into the gentlemen’s world. The friends I will introduce you to are in that world in Barcelona.”

Medina was saying more, but Brett was smitten with the Maserati sedan that awaited them in the parking lot. “The car will, of course, be at your disposal while I’m gone. I’ll leave you Fausto’s number and he will come for you on short notice any time you need him.”

Brett and Fausto gave each other a quick body scan and Brett decided he might, in fact, be calling on the dark and handsome chauffer to come for him while he was here.

“You’re so generous,” Brett said. “We’ll have to think of some way I can show my appreciation.”

“I don’t believe we need to think too hard upon that to settle on something, Brett.” Again the easy Spanish smile.

The restaurant Diego took Brett to indeed was a fabulous one on the Barcelona waterfront, but Brett quickly decided it wouldn’t be one he’d be going to at his own expense. His father’s business partner certainly was being generous to him. He hadn’t thought twice when given the opportunity to fly to Barcelona at Medina’s expense and watch over the man’s flat in a fashionable area of the city center, on Carrer dels Tallers, while the executive was gone. Medina flew out for New York the next morning. And that being the case, Brett was surprised that Medina said they’d be going to a bar and pool hall on Carrer de Villarroel named Manuel’s Lounge after dinner. They didn’t get out of the restaurant until after 10:00 p.m. Of course, this was early in Spain. The dinner hour was just getting going when they left.

“These are the friends I wanted you to meet,” Medina said when they reached Manuel’s Lounge. As they had approached it, Medina had pointed out that this street and one running parallel to it, Carrer de Casanova, were the center of Barcelona’s gay district and might be an area he’d want to avoid when he was out by himself. “If that’s a district you would want to avoid,” he said, turning a searching eye on Brett; giving him an opportunity to turn this evening around, if he wished. Brett just smiled back and didn’t say anything.

Manuel’s Lounge certainly met the “gay district” criterion. It’s was obviously an all-male watering hole, but it was one of diverse application. They walked through a bar area that was mainly catering to an age split of men—some were young and among these some were professionals and others were drifter types and then there were areas of the room dominated by older men, looking fairly well heeled and ogling the young men. They all ogled Brett as Medina guided him by them. At the back of the room, two other rooms were sectioned off. There was a pool hall, dominated by younger men and then the room where Medina led Brett—a room with billiard tables, in use primarily by the older, more wealthy clientele.

Medina introduced Brett around to the men who were playing at one of the tables. “Sebastian Acosta. He owns a winery in the countryside north of Barcelona.” The youngest of the men Brett was introduced to, Acosta was also the most in shape and muscular, no doubt because he probably worked with the vines himself. He had something of a thuggish appearance, but in a sexy way the Spanish men were prone to be. He gave Brett an openly assessing look as Medina turned to the next, significantly older, and to Brett’s experienced eye, more patrician British man. “Alastair Cowden, retired here from England. He was a senior partner of our firm. Now he explores the Mediterranean in his yacht, ported here in Barcelona.” The man was tall and gaunt. He’d been handsome at one time, but the ravishes of time hadn’t been polite to him.

“And this is Valentino Nardo, he’s into movies.” The short, somewhat pudgy and baldheaded man held out his hand to Brett. When they shook, the man folded his index finger into Brett’s palm and rubbed. He smiled when it was evident that Brett knew what he was signaling. He was declaring himself a top and checking on whether Brett was a submissive. By not pulling his hand away, Brett was affirming that. Brett, in fact, knew the name Valentino Nardo and what kind of films the man produced. “He’s Italian, comes here periodically to recruit talent,” Medina added.

“Yes, I know of Mr. Nardo’s work,” Brett said. He returned Nardo’s smile and the Italian took his time giving up Brett’s hand.

“Would you like to join in on the billiards?” Cowden asked in a raspy voice. He handed Brett a billiard cue, and Brett accepted it.

“Perhaps I’ll watch for a while to see how it’s played,” he said and positioned himself in the doorway into the main bar room. He watched the other men play—it didn’t take them long to become engrossed in their play, and Brett understood that Medina hadn’t been making it up when he said he and his friends met here regularly to play. They played fast, expertly, and nearly silently.

From his vantage point, Brett could both watch the play and at least pretend that he was trying to understand the game and also look out into the main bar and case out the men there. He was leaning into the frame of the door with one of his legs bent and his foot pressed against the door frame. In this pose, he was as much being ogled from the bar room—and surreptitiously from time to time by the old friends playing billiards as well—as he was ogling.

Seeing a young man, swarthy and sexy, sinewy and sultry, come into the bar off the street piqued Brett’s attention. Sensing something worthwhile was looking at him, the young man scanned the room with his eyes and lit on Brett. The two eyed each other—the foxy, dark, dangerous-looking stud and the almost androgynously angelic platinum blond beauty—and both sparks and an understanding flowed between them from across the room.

The foxy man nodded at Brett and slowly moved toward the corridor to what lay behind the club rooms.

“I’m going out for a smoke for a few minutes,” Brett told the men at the billiards table. A couple of them nodded tersely without looking up, but they clearly were focused on their game. Perhaps this had all moved too quickly and smoothly for Medina in the unfolding of his plan. He obviously thought he’d established Bret as the entertainment for he and his friends later in the evening. He didn’t taken into account that Bret had his own ideas about the evening’s entertainment.

Bret pulled himself away from the door frame and moved toward the corridor to what lay behind the club rooms.

The room, not much bigger than a closet—a one commode bathroom, it turned out—was dark when Brett entered behind the fox. The door was slammed shut behind him and the lock turned with him getting but a glance of what fixture was where. The light wasn’t turned on, but he knew, as his knee hit the bowl of the toilet that he was being leaned over the commode. Strong hands grasped his wrists and raised and spread his arms. The palm of his hands were pressed against the cool tiles of the wall behind the toilet. He heard the man mutter something in Spanish, and decided he’d guessed right when he left his hands pressed against the wall when the man’s hands were taken away.

Brett didn’t cry out. He was excited by this. It was a shock, though, when the man grabbed his hair and hit his head against the tiled wall. It didn’t do damage, but it dazed him. Arms came around his waist and his belt buckle was being undone, his trousers unzipped, and this trousers and briefs pulled down to his ankles.

Brett laughed and then muttered, “Yes, yes . . . si. Oh, fuck, si, si,” and then moaned as the man went down on his knees behind him, separated his butt cheeks with his hands, and buried his face in Brett’s crack. Then, when he was eating Brett’s ass out, with Brett muttering, “si, si,” over and over again, he reached between Brett’s thighs, grasped his cock, and milked it.

When Brett came, crying out, “Fuck, yes!” which was quickly, as he had been keyed up and wondering how he was going to get this evening exactly what he was getting, the young fox man stood up, grasped Brett’s hips with his hands, positioned the bulb of his cock, and thrust up, hard, inside Brett’s channel.

Brett jerked, gave a little cry, and moaned. The man grabbed his hair again, bounced his head against the tiles again, and then, pulling Brett’s head back cruelly into his shoulder, pumped him in earnest to his own ejaculation. Early in the pumping, Brett relaxed and concentrated on the cock working inside him. He was getting what he wanted. When the stranger had come, he pushed Brett, belly down, onto the commode, bounced Brett’s head against the toilet tank—lightly, not hard enough to raise a bruise—adjusted his own clothes, and left the water closet.

The phantom man muttered the words “Inglés puta”—English slut—as he walked away,

Brett turned on the light, assessed the damage, of which not much was apparent, leaned over the sink as he washed himself, and stared into the mirror. He gave a little smile. This is what he’d wanted. This was what turned him on the most—an anonymous stranger from off the street. He pulled his briefs and trousers up, adjusted his clothing, looked at himself from this angle and that in the mirror to ensure that he was still beautiful, and went back to the billiard’s room. He leaned into the frame of the door again, where he could see and be seen from both directions. The foxy stud wasn’t to be seen in the bar room, though. He’d already gotten what he came for.

The older men taken up with their billiards game didn’t seem to have missed him. He almost wished they had, so that they wouldn’t be so smugly assured about him.

* * * *

Diego Medina’s flat, on the third floor of an architecturally interesting old building overlooking the narrow Carrer dels Tallers, made narrower by the open-air street cafés below, was as impressive as everything else Medina exhibited. The rooms were large and ornate, the ceilings were high, and the windows were mostly French doors leading out onto small balconies. The layout was formal, with separate living room, dining room, kitchen—with an unoccupied maid’s room behind it—library, and two bedrooms, each with an en suite bath of generous proportions and expensive fittings.

The two men sat, drinking brandy, on a leather sofa facing a fireplace, with a fire set, and chatted briefly. Medina moved closer to Brett, who was sitting in the corner of the couch, and pulled the young man to him. Brett didn’t resist, and when Medina came in for a kiss, Brett opened to him. He ran his hand down into Median’s open shirt front, opening other buttons as his hand glided down the muscular, hairy chest. They were still locked in a kiss when he pulled Medina’s shirt tail out and then unzipped him, and took possession of the man’s hard cock.

Coming out of the kiss, Medina unbuttoned Brett’s shirt, pulled it off the young man’s back, tossed it to the side, and, turning Brett’s back to the arm of the sofa and hovering over him, let his mouth explore the luscious blond’s chest and nipples. Brett had lost hand contact with the older man’s cock, and Medina, in turn, unzipped Brett’s trousers, fished out his cock, and slow stroked it.

As he was stroking Brett, he lay his cheek on Brett’s chest, and murmured what the “deal” was. “There are two thousand euros on the table over there, Brett.” The young man had, in fact, seen Medina put the roll of bills on the table as he’d returned with brandy glasses. “Your service in London told me that the going rate for you was five hundred euros for a night. What I’ve put over there will cover Sebastian, Alastair, and Valentino. They all wanted in. I have left cell phone numbers for them there too. You will call them to arrange your meetings. If you decide not to meet one of them, don’t take their five hundred euros. If other meetings are desired by you both while you are here, they will pay more, of course. The other five hundred is for me. You will lay under me, yes?”

“Yes, of course,” Brett answered, he arms going around Medina’s torso and palming his shoulder blades.

“Now, here.”

“Yes.”

“And for the rest of the night, in my bed?”

“Yes.”

Medina went up on his knees long enough to pull Brett’s trousers and briefs off his legs and then to do so for himself as well. Brett turned more onto his back against the sofa arm, raised and spread his legs as Medina moved in on his knees, and rolled his pelvis up to Medina’s hard cock. He gave a groan and a low moan as the older man entered him. They locked eyes. Brett had mastered the art of showing a mixture of pain and pleasure and awe in his eyes as a client drove his cock up inside him. The look wasn’t lost on Medina, who gave a low moan himself, and began to pump. Brett dug his fingernails into the man’s shoulder blades, and murmured, “Yes, fuck me. Si, si. You’re so big. Give it to me. Just like that.”

The golden words that every man wants to hear from a lovely sex partner.

“Oh, god, yes! Drive it in me!” Brett cried out. Whether or not the added passion was a prostitute’s trained pretense, it had the desired effect of increasing Medina’s arousal and thrust response.

And, having paid big bucks to get the London male whore in this position as a present for his three friends, Medina did just that.

* * * *

Sunlight was flooding Diego Medina’s bedroom through two open French doors out onto mere inches of balcony depth when Brett opened his eyes. He groaned. He was on his back and his legs were spread and bent—the most comfortable position he could take at the moment. Who knew that he could take so much cock in the night? Who knew that a man as old as Diego Medina could get it up that often and keep it hard that long? He had really gotten his money’s worth. Brett’s jaw was sore. He gave a little smile of pleasure for managing to have been touched and well worked deep inside him. That didn’t happen often in his profession.

It gave him an added thrill to have been screwed by his father’s business partner.

He stirred, preparing to roll out of the bed, but a beefy arm flopped down across him and he heard a grunt from next to him in the bed. He tried to lift the arm off him, but that brought the man awake and Fausto, the chauffeur growled, “No you don’t. I’m gonna do you again.” He rolled over on top of Brett. He was a heavy man—young and muscular. A man of the street, which is why he was in bed, although Brett couldn’t remember having asked him to be in bed with him. He couldn’t remember when Medina and Fausto exchanged places—or whether they double fucked him before they did.

“Enough,” Brett muttered, and made to roll out from underneath the hunk of a man. Fausto slapped him across the face.

“I’m not done yet, puta”—whore. “Take it,” Fausto muttered, pressing his body down on Brett and grabbing for Brett’s wrists. The bulb of his cock found Brett’s hole and he slid in.

Aroused by the domination and rough treatment, Brett fell back onto the pillows. He wrapped his legs around Fausto’s thighs, underneath the man’s buttocks, and Fausto started plowing him in vigorous, deep strokes. That’s why his jaw was sore, Brett now remembered. He’d struggled last night too, and Fausto had subdued him with two slaps to the face, calling him a whore then too. Whether or not the chauffeur was canny enough to realize it, it’s what worked best with Brett. He had to play the high-class male hooker so much that, for himself, for his own pleasure, he wanted something rougher, something taken from him, with a little force. He wanted a stranger off the street. Fausto hadn’t beaten him badly. It was as if he knew where the limits were. He’d just dominated Brett and Brett had dutifully fallen into the role of submissive.

That’s what he did now too. He lay back, put his hips into motion to take Fausto rhythmically, and held the man’s buttocks close against him with his legs wrapped around Fausto’s thighs. They rocked against each other for a good fifteen minutes, Fausto grunting and whispering dirty words in Spanish in Brett’s ear as Brett moaned low and whispered “si, si” in Spanish and other words of encouragement and pleasure in French, which Fausto seemed to have some grip on and was the only language other than English that Brett knew. They came almost simultaneously, which was a point in the chauffeur’s favor over Medina who, despite his age, had gotten it up four times but couldn’t deliver on Brett’s schedule any of those times.

After they had fucked the last time, with Medina on his back and Brett riding his cock cowboy style, Diego had whispered a few warnings about his friends. “You’ll have to be patient with Cowden. He needs pills and even then doesn’t always get hard enough or get off from penetration. You’ll probably have to suck him off after he’s tried getting inside your ass and failed. He’s good for conversation if he can’t perform, though, and would be content with that if you don’t make him feel guilty.

And watch out for Acosta. He can be nasty. He’s a real thug. Came from the streets. Nardo is OK, but he’ll want to film you. He’ll tell you it’s for private viewing, but if he brings another couple of guys with cameras, make him pay more up front—that film is going to show in the art houses and then on the Internet.” Then the older man had turned on his side and was snoring within minutes.

Five hours later, he was up walking around, finishing his packing, and Fausto, the chauffeur, was standing in the doorway, waiting to take the luggage to the car, but his eyes on Brett, stretched out, naked, on the bed. Brett had the sensation that Fausto had already fucked him at that point.

Fausto would certainly declare, if challenged, that Brett invited him back, and into bed again, after he’d delivered Medina to the airport. Brett couldn’t remember having done so, but the man was a hunk and was from the street—and he slapped Brett around a bit that first time when he returned and got forceful with him and called him dirty names. And he’d proved to have been a real stud—young, vigorous, virile, forceful, and hung. After it had been done, Brett didn’t have anything to complain about.

After this fuck, Fausto let Brett get out of the bed and pad off to the bathroom. Brett came back after soaking in the tub to answer a ringing phone. Fausto was gone.

“Alastair here,” Brett heard when he picked up the phone. The previous night Diego had told Brett that he should call the clients to make arrangements for their encounters, but obviously the Britisher, Cowden, was too anxious to wait for Brett’s call.

“I’m taking the yacht up the French Riviera this afternoon. Coming back tomorrow. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t out of range when you called. I thought you might want to go with me. We’d be back by dinnertime tomorrow.”

A day and a half on a boat with a man who looked like a skeleton and needed pills to get it up—and sometimes couldn’t get it up even then? Brett thought. He wasn’t ready for that. “I’m sorry, but I’m exhausted today. Jet lag. How about later in the week, or maybe early next week?”

The man was disappointed, but Brett made a date for the weekend on the yacht and that satisfied Cowden enough to get him off the line.

The phone rang again as soon as Brett put it down. It was the winery owner, Sebastian Acosta, who was quite direct. “I have tickets to a prize fight tonight. I want to take you to that and then take you to a hotel and fuck the shit out of you.”

Brett asked the man what time he’d pick him up.

He was in the kitchen, eating his breakfast at 1:00 p.m., when Valentino Nardo called. “We will be filming at an old palace by the sea the day after tomorrow. The palace is fabulous as are the art works in it. You should see the gold gilt on the bed in the master bedroom. I thought you might like to—”

“Are you planning for me to be in that film—and on that bed?” Brett interrupted to ask.

It took a moment for Nardo to catch up to him. “It’s a very nice bed, and I believe I have paid for—”

“You paid for private sex, Mr. Nardo. I know about the movies you make. I don’t mind if you fuck me on film for distribution, but it would cost you another thousand euros—up front. Are you interested?”

He was interested, and the date was made.

His breakfast finished, Brett went into the bathroom of the guest room, where his suitcase was but he hadn’t spent any time in there yet, and showered again, making sure to clean himself out very well. He picked a form-fitting T-shirt and low rise, worn jeans from his suitcase and ferreted around in there until he came up with rope sandals. That was all he needed to take the walk he felt like taking. Fausto hadn’t finished him; he’d just whetted his appetite.

* * * *

Diego had warned Brett about coming into the heart of the Barcelona gay district alone. The gay community in Barcelona was large—and bold, he’d said. Brett had listened to Diego say this, making his eyes go big, and clucking in apprehension—trying not to think at the same time of the sexy fox man who had fucked him in the dark water closet at Manuel’s Lounge the previous night—who had taken him hard and banged his head against the wall and the toilet tank to subdue him and correctly called him a puta—and how he had loved the fuck.

Diego had warned him, in particular, about the men loitering on the Carrer de Casanova, the street parallel to the Carrer de Villarroel, where Manuel’s Lounge had been located.

“When these men see a man they want to fuck, they just follow him until they can get him alone, and then they fuck the stuffing out of him,” Diego had said.

“Really? How cruel. Just strangers off the street like that?” he asked, turning his face away so that Medina couldn’t see his slight smile.

“Yes, just like that. Grabbing and fucking men who are on the Carrer de Casanova just to find some hookup with a suitable person, like you or me—and they grab them and have their way with them by force.”

“Thank you for warning me,” Brett had said in a breathless voice, not telling Medina, of course, why he was breathless.

Brett left the flat on foot and walked the short distance to the Carrer de Casanova. He started at one end and walked to the other. Then he turned and walked back. On his first circuit, he attracted the attention of several men who were leaning against walls of the buildings on the street and smoking and chatting with each other. As he passed them, many ogled him from when he first came into sight until he had passed out of sight. More than one man gave him a wolf whistle. Several even called out to him, some telling him what they could do with him, some telling him what he could do for them. They’d start with Spanish and then when he didn’t react, they tried other languages. If they happened on English or French, he’d given them appreciative glances. By his second circuit, they knew to try English or French. When he passed a couple of bruisers, leaning against a wall, smoking and smirking, and one of them called out in English or French what they would like to do with him—to him—he stopped abruptly, turned and smiled at them, and then continued on his way.

With a little thrill, Brett learned from this walk that, on the whole, the strangers loitering and ogling walkers on the Carrer de Casanova were sexier and more brutish looking than he’d found on the streets of London.

On his second circuit, he stopped, one of the men built in more graphic terms on what he’d said before that he’d like to do to Brett, and Brett nodded slightly in their direction. One of them tossed out the “puta” challenge at him, flipping Bret and underhanded bird, and he just smiled seductively at the man and walked on. This time when Brett walked on, back toward the flat, the two pushed off of the wall and followed him. They followed him via several streets back to the Carrer dels Tallers. They followed him into the building where Diego Medina’s flat was located. They followed him up two flights and to where he paused at the flat door.

Brett didn’t let them into the flat, though. Carlos and Milo didn’t let him. Carlos, tall, muscular, and swarthy, backed Brett up against the wall next to the flat door with his body and leaned in for a deep, possessive kiss, becoming busy with his hands in exposing Brett’s naked body. Carlos fucked Brett right there, standing against the wall, beside the door, Brett trapped between him and the wall while Milo, also tall, muscular, and swarthy, went through the pockets of Brett’s discarded jeans, found the flat key, and let himself in. Brett hooked his knees on Carlo’s hips and took the Spanish stud’s huge cock hard and deep to a mutual ejaculation.

Also nicely cocked, Milo fucked him doggie style over the arm of the same leather sofa Diego had fucked him on the previous night. Milo was similar enough to Carlos in every way, including the upward curve of his dark-brown cock, that Brett never did tell them apart and was never sure when one left off fucking him and turned him over to the other. Milo, crouched over Brett’s back, was sunk into the sofa cushion with his knees, while Carlos stood on the other side of the sofa arm and fed his cock deep down Brett’s throat. At some point Brett thought the two might have changed places, but they were too much alike to tell apart in the short time they used and abused Brett’s body.

Before they left, they had Brett together, both of them astonished on how much into the fuck he himself was. The two thugs lay on the sofa, their heads on opposite sofa arms, their legs overlapping each other’s so that their cocks were bundled together. Brett was mounted on both cocks—taking them together in his passage, and crouched at the center of the sofa, facing the front of the sofa, and stretching his arms over the back of the sofa in either direction to maintain his balance. He rose and fell on the cocks, taking them deeper with each movement, until all three of them were huffing and puffing and excitedly crying out in the passion of a shared explosion.

Each of the thugs, Carlos and Milo, fucked Brett again individually, while the other did his share of emptying the refrigerator of beer. They knocked Brett about a bit too, all of which he took like a trooper.

When they left the flat, leaving Brett in a fetal ball on the floor in front of the sofa, panting and moaning contentedly, they took a souvenir—but just one—with them. It took Brett a week to find a replacement of the bronze table statue that appeared to be one of Goliath fucking David, and the replacement was expensive. But it had been worth it to Brett. Two strangers from off the street. When they had left, he stretched out on the floor and masturbated to a reliving of what they had done with him and to him.

* * * *

A developing bruise check in front of the guest room bathroom mirror when Brett was able to scrape himself off the living room floor revealed that he really should call Sebastian Acosta and beg off that evening, but the thought of watching fit men beating on each other in the ring with a thug like Acosta sitting next to him, both of them thinking about what they’d be doing afterward convinced him to carry through with the date.

The evening was everything he had dreamed it would be. Spanish prize fighting was as brutal as their bull fighting was. In fact the thought of bulls went all the way through watching three matches of one human bull beating another one to a pulp and to having Acosta move Brett’s hand to his package during one of the fights and Brett discovering that Acosta too was a hung bull.

And Acosta was ready for Brett long before the prize fights were over. He couldn’t keep his hands off Brett as the two watched the blood lusting and letting in the ring. And Brett was so much into the mood too that he shot a load in his trousers while their eyes were glued to the ring and Acosta was pawing his crotch. Brett was embarrassed, but Acosta just laughed.

“I hope you saved some for later,” he quipped.

Brett had saved some for later and more for later than that. They didn’t make it to the hotel before they had sex. They did make it to the hotel for a night of vigorous sex, but, for the initial bout, they only made it as far as Acosta’s Alfa Romeo in the shadows of a parking garage. When Brett came up for air from kneeling in the well of the car and sucking Acosta ready for action, the big thug raised Brett up, pulled him down into his lap, skewering him on a gigantic cock, and slammed him up and down on his throbbing shaft, while he controlled Brett’s breathing by choking his throat with both hands and Brett flopped around like a rag doll.

Acosta was no less brutal with Brett in the hotel room later, fucking him in every demanding position he could come up with, again using a choke hold to control Brett’s breathing and to keep the young prostitute totally docile to everything Acosta did with him.

Brett loved it, but Acosta had to take him back to Medina’s flat, carry him up the stairs, and deposit him inside the door of the flat, where Brett lay, moaning for nearly an hour before he was able to drag himself into the guest bathroom, soak in the tub, and assess the damage.

One thing was for sure. He wasn’t going to be able to do a porn movie with Valentino Nardo the next day. He called Nardo, who was of another opinion. He wanted to film a scene with the bruises—but then he’d be happy to film another scene when they were gone. And he was quite willing to pay extra for it. Brett clicked off the phone with the feeling that he wasn’t charging enough for this film work.

He dragged into the kitchen and made another 1:00 p.m. breakfast. When he was done, he went into the guest room and picked out a fresh form-fitting T-shirt. The low-rise jeans from yesterday would be fine again, as would be the rope sandals.

He left the flat on foot and walked toward the Carrer de Casanova and the lineup of the strangers from the street. He was on vacation. He’d manage with Cowden and Nardo. He’d already managed with Medina and Acosta. But when Diego Medina had invited him to house sit in Barcelona, he’d presented it as a chance for Brett to have a vacation. Vacation for Brett was strangers off the street, not the wealthier and more refined types of gentlemen he serviced in London—not that Sebastian Acosta, Brett thought, with a smile, had in any way been a gentleman. If he had to beg off of sex here in Barcelona, it would be from Cowden and Nardo, not the strangers off the street.

by Habu

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