Strangers Off the Street

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.