Strangers Off the Street

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.