My website is finally operational. Gloria in excelsio. I know it is too - a dear lad I've come to know from writing for Nifty placed it, and it went through. 3 long months of this! I can't tell you how many times I grumbled nasty things about gay businesses (the bank, the card company, the secured gate company, and even the shopping cart company are all gay).
Please visit the site - http://www.macmillanbooks.com I look forward to your visit.
Dave
CHAPTER TWELVE
"I will take the car to the garage," Pyotr told Brett and myself from the driver's window. I felt Ilyich watching us, even as the others milled around the entrance. We stood beside the car, between the blond Russian and our friends.
"Do you want to stay with us tonight?" Brett asked Pyotr quickly, his voice not carrying beyond the three of us.
"You will permit this?" The almond-shaped blue eyes looked directly at me and waited for me to respond.
"If you would like to, yes," I agreed.
Pyotr grinned broadly. "I bring many fine English condoms then. They don't break like those made in Russia." "I will be most sore tomorrow morning," he mumbled and then chuckled softly. "And I will be most happy being sore there."
I watched the young Russian drive the car off the drive and towards the outbuildings before turning back to the rest of my party and Ilyich. The snideness of my remark to the older man earlier had been intentional. I had wanted to force him back from whatever personal perception he might have that the five of us were here in Selsey Bill for his personal pleasure.
I did not want to alienate him too far, however. I thought it best to follow Brett's lead for a while and see whatever the Russian bear might be comfortable showing us of himself.
We entered what once would have been the great hall of the manor when this house was still English and still belonged to those who had built it. Sometime in the score of years it had been a weekend home for rich people in London, it had been remodelled, however. The great hall of the English manor house had become an enclosed garden. The back had been empowered by some interior decorator who had never been British but who probably had seen service with Atila the Hun.
Walls had been knocked out. Skylights in the ceiling above the stairs brought in the sun. The wall from entranceway to the back terrace had become a warm, outdoorsey, cuddley nice place of flower planters and cutsey wall hangings that reminded me of an adult version of Winnie the Pooh. It was a hell of a thing to have done to this house that once had been very much a tribute to Christopher Wren.
Ilyich led us from the front to the rear of the house through elevated flower planters and patio furniture, telling us how especially glad he was that we had arrived. He opened the French doors onto the terrace and ushered the five of us back out into the summer sunshine. I was immediately taken with how green everything appeared to be. And almost as immediately by the masculine beauty playing on the greenest field there was at dacha russikya.
There were young men on a field below us playing football, and they were naked. I blinked and stared.
"Oh, boy!" Richard groaned and licked his lips.
"Why are they playing nude?" I asked the Russian.
He shrugged and studied me. "Why not, Phillip? We are all men who like other men here. The lads too. Why wear clothing that would hide what they have from each other?" I had to admit that the explanation made sense.
We fell silent as we began to watch the men play. Each of them was as intent as the top-earner from Manchester Union. This certainly was no schoolyard match-up among friends; it had every characteristic of being bloody serious.
I gathered the teams were picked because of hair colour. It was the only difference I could see, but there were five brunettes and five blonds on the field and they remained colour-schemed in their associations. The blonds were walking the ball down the field as I began to watch the game. They were still deep enough in their own end of the field that the brunettes hadn't moved in to break them up.
A brunette with hair trailing halfway down his back rushed the football and somehow stole it. Even at the fifty yards that separated us, it was obvious that his belly was a solid 8-pak. His chest was wide, taut, and smooth. He was definitely in good shape. He dribbled toward the goal, smiling at the blond goalie as he came down the middle.
One of the well-built brunette's teammates materialise at the edge of his peripheral vision.. He stopped and studied the goalie as several blonds began to converge on him. The 8-pack belly took three short, quick steps back from the ball and, reversing direction, kicked it to his teammate. He charged into the goal zone as blonds converged on the other brunette.
The brunette watched the ball coming toward him and managed to ignore the tonne of human flesh stampeding toward him. At the last possible section, he punched the descending ball with his forehead, sending it speeding directly across to his mate with the 8-pack belly.
The blond goalie was in the other end of the zone trying to protect against an attack that had been a fake out and which no longer existed. Alone in his end of the zone, 8-pack butted the ball into the net.
Moments later, the same brunette had stolen the ball from a blond who had been a bit too cocky for his own good.
He kicked out to midfield and I watched far too many blonds drift out toward the main brunette strongpoint. I had watched the one lad kick off and set up a perfect goal. I suspected he was beginning to do the same again and didn't understand why the blonds weren't realising what was being set up.
A blond rushed the brunette from an angle he couldn't see and whipped in front of him, attempting to trip him and steal the ball. I smiled at the determination that immediately possessed the brunette's face as he managed to keep the ball from the blond and kick it out to one of his teammates. The blond had committed a foul, but there were no referees on the field and I figured it would be ignored.
The brunette grabbed the blond's wrist and pulled him to him. I was ready to watch the two begin swinging at each other. A man from each team joined the two confrontationists. "Aren't they going to fight?" Brett demanded, giving expression to what we were all probably feeling.
"No, this is no fight," Ilyich told us. "Mick fouled Maxim-"
"The blond lad is Mick?" I asked, instantly remembering Trell's report of the drug sale he'd observed.
"Yes, that is Mick." Ilyich chuckled. "He loves what Maxim has between his legs, he cannot keep his hands off my countryman, even when they are in a football game."
"So, what's the conference for?" Brett wanted to know.
"They are discussing the penalty Mick must pay."
"Penalty?" I mumbled.
"If Mick is to take Maxim orally or anally."
"That's how they pay their penalties?" Doug asked and, glancing at Jesse, said: "do you want to play with them?"
I watched the brunette with the 8-pack negotiate the penalty that the blond would pay with a representative from each teams. The lad named Mick seemed to have little to say as to his fate. I, however, noticed that he did give the Russian's crutch several long, lingering looks; and that he himself was erect.
Finally, one of the team representatives pressed something into Maxim and he turned from them and smiled at Mick, holding up what was obviously a foil packet for him to see. His hand formed a fist around the blond's cock that covered it completely. The Russian's prick went hard. Even at fifty yards I knew the tree trunk he had grown out of his crutch was something I never wanted to meet. Brett and the other lads in our party stared, jaws agape.
"Maxim has more than 40 centimetres," Ilyich explained to us. "Mick plots new ways to have it every time he is near him." He guffawed. "Mick makes eyes like the little girl wanting it at Max; he wants for them to be lovers. Max wants but to shag all the pretty boys."
I did the computations and did not like the amount of cock I seemed to be missing. Nobody was that bloody big. I turned to Ilyich to protest and, quite probably, put my foot into it at the same time. I invariably find that my male ego, whilst quite blind, is fully capable of making a complete arse out of myself. Standing on the terrace at dacha Russikya felt like one of those times about to come into being.
Brett snuggled close to me, his arm going around my waist and the other hand pulling my face level to his. "Phillip, you had better stay close enough to me that I don't even think of doing something stupid with that guy," he whispered in my ear.
I nodded. I thought his thinking sounded imminently reasonable to me. Avoid the Russian Maxim and no harm would come to any of us. Quite logical.
The game resumed and the players seemed to ignore the sex scene their mates were starting to put on. Mick turned back to Maxim and the Russian allowed himself to be kissed while his hands explored the Englishman's bottom. Mick began to grind himself against the other man's crutch and that appeared to be more than the Russian was willing to tolerate.
Maxim pulled away from the kiss and, at the same time, put both hands on Mick's shoulders and pushed him toward the ground. The English lad's knees touched the ground and he quickly moved to sit his haunches before the Russian, licked his lips, and dived for the man's prick. He instantly buried his face in the dark pubes, his hands moving to grasp his partner's arsecheeks.
"Looks like fun," Jesse offered, breaking the silence that had come to envelop the terrace.
"You may join in any time," Ilyich told us, "any of you with any one who is here. If it is outside, then anyone is invited." He grinned at me. "After all, it is supposed to be a fun weekend that I have invited you to join, yes?"
"Right," the Asian said but made no move to take the steps down to the ground.
Mick held the Russian's arsecheeks tightly and bobbed expertly on the brunette's prick. Maxim held his hands at his side, satisfied to permit the blond Englishman kneeling in front of him to do the work.
The blond kept one hand firmly on the Russian bottom but had the other one exploring the body before him - the smooth athlete's chest, the chiselled 8-pack of the belly, the thick muscular thighs.
Soon, Maxim threw his head back, his eyes shut and his dark curly hair falling straight back from his head. His throat muscles tightened as he began to slam his belly against Mick's face. His hands came up to the back of the blond's head to hold him on his cock.
"That is our Mick and Maxim," Ilyich said. "They are both insatiable." He glanced at Brett and smiled. "Almost like you the other night - Mick is."
I glanced back to the two lovers. The Russian had obviously tossed off and the English lad was sitting on his haunches cleaning what he'd missed the first time. Then I saw him take a packet from the brunette's hand. I realised the Russian was still completely hard.
Mick unfurled the condom down Maxim's prick. We watched as the Englishman turned away and raise his arsecheeks. The Russian settled behind the blond, his hands massaging the man's buttocks before placing his cock between the other man's raised bum.
The blond pushed back slowly, impaling himself and opening himself up for the Russian behind him at the same time. He rose up on his knees and the brunette's arms encircled his chest. He began to grind his arse against his companion's crutch, his own cock erect and swinging in front of him. His eyes were closed tight as he reached behind him to grasp the Russian's arsecheeks.
Maxim took his companion's knob in one hand and began to work it in rhythm with his own prick's movement in Mick's arse. The fingers of his other hand twisted and tweaked one nipple and then the other. The blond boy leant further into the Russian, the back of his head riding the brunette's shoulder - visibly surrendering himself to the shag.
The Englishman stiffened, his neck muscles cording, as he groaned. Maxim continue to wank him slowly in time with his own movement inside him. Mick shuddered and began to erupt as his companion continued to plough his bottom.
"That looks like it could be fun," Brett mumbled to me. "Feel like finding our bedroom and taking a time out there? Maybe an hour long one even?"
I chuckled. "You're not enjoying the show?" I asked back softly so as not to disturb the others.
He rubbed his bum against my thigh, arching a brow. "There are some things that are just so much more fun to do than they are to watch."
He looked down at Maxim still pounding Mick's arse whilst he milked the lad's dick of his second come. "From what I hear, we're in for a long wait now that the Russian's had his first come."
"Really?"
He smiled up at me. "A couple of the girls at Illusions have had their moments with the big boy. He stays hard all night, comes pretty fast the first time and, then, isn't going to get off again. He fucked the girls raw, by the way - right out of their falsies."
"Ouch!"
"Richard can tell you some real horror tales about Maxim-" He glanced at the Irishman and smiled. "But he keeps going back for more - he's even drooling right now, just watching the guy balling somebody else. That boy is such a size queen."
"Richard is a size queen?"
"Oh, yeah! Big time. If you don't have at least eight inches, you don't get a piece of his ass the second time." He laughed. "That Russian down there has had him at least ten times I know about."
I looked over at Richard intently watching the action on the ground before us. He ran his tongue over his lower lip. "I would've thought he would be a bit more versatile-"
"He sort of tends to end up bottoming, Phillip, but he still finds enough guys out there who'll take care of his dick for him too."
On the ground, the blond was on his knees and elbows, his cheek riding this hands and his arse hiked high. Maxim's hips were a blur as they propelled his cock into the English boy. Each impact of his hard crutch against Mick's buttocks jarred the blond's whole torso.
"I'd say that Big Max has decided he's put on enough of a show for everyone," Brett observed. "He's trying to get himself off now."
"Sounds like a rough ride for the blond then."
"Him?" Brett sneared. "I've seen that girl around. She likes to keep her legs spread and her boypussy filled. The rougher, the better. If she could get away with it, she'd do it right in the middle of a street."
"Oh?"
"He's a whore, Phillip - what you guys over here call a rentboy. And not a nice one like Aled. From what I've heard, he wants it rough and he wants it plentiful. He keeps his prices low so he can have four or five guys a night."
I was finally beginning to connect the blond to Trell's report. What I was seeing of him beneath the Russian and what Brett was telling me. The connection had been there since I had known the blond was named Mick.
Now, however, I was fitting the pegs into holes. Round pegs to round holes. I was beginning to suspect this lead had a far better chance of becoming something important.
The naked lads playing football in the field below me were just the kind of wholesome, clean cut boys who could score the gay community. Especially if they mixed a little fun with their pleasure as I was hearing Brett describe Mick's approach to hiring his bottom out.
"It didn't hurt," Trell mumbled in surprise and reached between his legs to feel the root of Shep's dick in his arsehole.
"I told you it wouldn't," the American whispered at his ear. "That's just an old wife's tale."
"Is it really going to feel good with you fucking me?"
"I promise, Davis."
Trell lifted his leg and brought it back down against Shep's buttocks. "Well, lad, I think that you'd better get busy then."
"Get busy?"
"Shagging me arse proper, Shep. I want to feel good down there."
Trell had a cock in his arse, he was naked, and his legs were spread - exposing him more than he'd ever been exposed before. He liked it already - a lot more than he would have thought possible. He was going to like it a whole lot more than that even, just as soon as Shep began.
He lay on his back with the American beside him. His heel tight against Shep's bottom, his hole filled with Shep's meat. His own meat only tumescent as it lay across his belly.
The American leant closer to his face and kissed him. "Relax and let yourself go," he told him.
Trell smiled up at him, his fingers running through the thick hair. "I trust you, Shep. I'm going to have a good time of exploring my gay side with you, now that I've decided to try it." He frowned slightly. "Shag me lad," he growled softly. "I want to feel your dick moving in my arse."
He focused on the fullness of the American's cock as it began to pull from him and nodded to himself when it reversed its retreat and pushed back into him. He shut his eyes and opened his legs wider to give Shep more room. Rubbing his thumb over his helmet, he had his prick erect and leaking pre-come immediately. He gave himself up to the pleasures spreading out over him from his arse.