THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB Dylan
By and copyright Lady Poetess
Disclaimer: This story is entirely fictitious and has no resemblance to anyone dead or alive.
ONE
Dylan McDermott loved art. A really good masterpiece could move him to tears, but he wouldn't let anyone know of it, or at least he tried not to. His reputation as a ruthless lawyer would be ruined if word got out that Dylan McDermott loved to spend his lunchtime twice a week at the Gallery of Modern Arts.
He walked around the sculpture for what seemed like the millionth time, lost in rapture, having long forgotten that his lunch break was long over.
His law partner Greg Germann, who knew where his buddy hanged out and had come here to drag him back to the office, coughed loudly. As was Greg's intention, Dylan straightened and scowled at his friend and colleague. "What?"
"Earth calling Dylan. The Jackson-Boroughs lawsuit in three hour's time, remember? Are you prepared? Say, is this the statue your sister claims that she is plagiarized from?" Greg studied curiously the statuette on the pedestal. Whatever that thing was, it looked like a cow to him, even if the information plaque at its foot suggested that the cow was supposed to represent one's unfulfilled dreams and a lifetime of regrets.
"Sculpture, Greg, not statue," Dylan corrected him. "Yeah, this is the one. What do you think? You've seen photos of Annette's sculpture. It looks the same?"
Greg had to admit the similarity was too close, too damning to be passed off as mere coincidence. "So, you're gonna sue the statue, er, sculpture maker?"
"No. I'm just going to meet this guy," Dylan said, hunching to look at the sculptor's name at the plaque, "called JC and straighten things out. Then I'll contact the gallery and make sure this JC never get his art displayed anywhere in this country."
Greg shook his head. Dylan and he met in law school when they ended up in the same room in the students' quarters. After an aborted affair that ended when they both realized they were better off friends, they realized that they clicked. Greg was the awkward, timid guy and Dylan was the flashy one. Hence while Greg handled the minor cases in court and made the practical decisions, Dylan produced the flair and dash that often masked his keen intelligence from unwary opponents. It was a brain-and-brawn-working-together symbiosis that they both had since Greg did Dylan's homework for him and in return, Dylan couched the man in his bar exams. And it was this same arrangement that was allowing them to keep a reputation as one of the more reliable law firms around.
People often mistook the usually genial Dylan as the pushover on the account of his easy grin and deceptively couldn't-care-less grace, and the actually timid and shy (if stern-looking) Greg as the one to watch for. To Greg's amusement, it often led to dire consequences on the mistaken person's part. Whoever this JC was, Greg wished the man some much-needed luck in handling Dylan.
Joshua Scott Chasez, who preferred to be known by his initials JC, stood back to observe his half-finished wood sculpture. He tapped at the blade of his saw thoughtfully, before picking up his chisel. As he was smoothing out the rough ends of the sculpture, he heard the roar of an engine outside his house-cum- workshop. It was a low, smooth purr of a roar that told JC that it came from an expensive, oil-sucking car.
Lifting his goggles, he walked to his window curiously. Just as he expected, there was a gray sports Mercedes parked on the grass just outside, and a tall, graceful dark-haired man was walking towards his door with fierce determination on his face.
JC couldn't help his instinctive dismay at his sawdust-covered and sweat- soaked self, and fought his urge to run and hide in shame at his less-than- impressive appearance. He switched off the loud acid playing from his radio, and did whatever he could to dust off the wood chips from his body. Then he opened the door before the elegant, damned classy-looking man knocked his door down.
"Hi. Can I help you?" JC said in his best grin.
The man didn't smile back. Damn, but he was gorgeous. Chiseled and aristocratic, his face looked as if he stepped right out of the pages of a fashion magazine. Not only did he looked like a beautiful walking billboard for any fashion label, he also radiated arrogant confidence, as if he knew he was as powerful and good-looking as people saw him.
JC looked down at his cotton Fruit-Of-The-Looms shirt and faded jeans ruefully. Oh well, it couldn't be helped. If $10,000 dropped from the sky onto his hands and given time, hell, he could look classy too.
It was then that he realized the man was looking at him with an odd look on his face. JC took a discreet sniff at himself, but he couldn't smell anything worse than a man hard at work in a swelteringly hot workshop. The man then shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts, before turning those vivid blue-green eyes on JC.
"Are you this JC, sculptor, with no known last name?" the man said.
It was a powerful, clear voice that carried across wide areas and demanded attention from its listeners. Better and better. JC had never met a man that carried charisma as magnetically as this man.
"That's me," he said, placing his hand at the doorway to support his now shaky knees. "Are you here about my work?"
"Yeah," the man said warily. "You see, JC, I have good cause to believe you plagiarized my sister Annette McDermott's work as your own, and I am here to make sure that you will die a slow, painful, and miserable death."
"Hey, I have no idea why Annette would try to pass of my work has her own," JC said, casually pulling off his dirty shirt and wiping his body with it. "But I'm sure there's a good explanation."
Dylan sat on the one seat in the workshop and wondered what the hell was going on. Not only did JC know Annette, a fact that she conveniently forgot to tell her brother, he was also a good friend to her. But Dylan couldn't think or sort out this strange tangle, because he was staring at JC's bare upper body in a keen rush of desire that was shockingly instantaneous even for a man of his voracious sexual appetite.
JC was tall, and he had a slim, well-muscled body, nothing Dylan hadn't undressed and touched before. In fact, Dylan had had bodies more beautifully formed. But no one Dylan had ever touched had created splendid sculptures like JC. Perversely, Dylan was already half in love with the sculptor sight unseen, the moment he stood before JC's Unfulfilled Delirium in the gallery. He had walked around the sculpture, his fingers itching to touch the smooth metallic surface of the sculpture that radiated such powerful emotions that resonated in Dylan.
Dylan knew that very few people could understand him when he talked about his love for art. It was when he saw JC's works, a perfect synchrony of dreams, wistful hopes, and bittersweet regrets, that he realized how lonely he was in his love for the underappreciated art of sculpture. He was also startled by the scorching intensity of his joy that he had found such perfect artwork. JC didn't know it, but Dylan had paid a fortune to possess the sculptures as soon as the exhibition ended.
He was already half in love with the creator of such glorious sculptures, and hence when Annette told him that JC might be just a hack, he took the whole situation way too personally for his own good. Right now, sitting in JC's workshop, however, he was finding it more difficult to believe that JC plagiarized Annette. After all, there were three finished sculptures and an unfinished one that Dylan could swear hum to him. He burned to possess the sculptures, and he burned to possess the sculptor as well.
JC wasn't handsome, but Dylan lusted after the man for his gift and genius. Already his cock, half-hard in anticipation when he tore down the streets to get here, was surging to a raging erection, protesting at the tight confines of his shorts in his trousers. The sculptor had a square face that was pretty plain except for that grin that dazzled Dylan when the man first opened the door, but he was pretty enough for Dylan to want him bad.
He knew he was staring at the man with a positively feral and hungry look, but he couldn't help it. He pulled at his tie and spread his long legs across the seat as his erection filled his crotch.
"Yeah, I'm sure there's a good explanation," he managed to say. He had an idea of the explanation, but he couldn't grasp at the embryo of the idea, not when his blood was boiling like this.
JC, seeming to be oblivious to his imminent danger, grinned amiably. "Actually, I wouldn't mind at all if you'd like me to talk to Annette and settle things out. She knows of my sculpture," he said, his voice trailing as his blue eyes clouded with confusion. "I really don't know why she tells you I copied her work."
"I'm sure it's all a mistake," Dylan said, his protective instincts rearing at the possibility of JC thinking the worst of his sister. Never mind that he would wring her neck the next time he saw her, but he was family and JC wasn't.
"Yeah, I'm sure," JC agreed, his good nature back in full force.
JC was now standing just before Dylan. Too close. Dylan tried to shake off the increasingly violent lust that even now tried to override his veneer of civilization.
"You okay?" JC asked, courting death by placing his hand on Dylan's. "You look like you could need a drink. I'll get you something from the fridge, and maybe then -- I don't know -- you want a tour of my workshop?"
Dylan didn't answer. He gave a low growl and his hand closed over JC's. With a rough tug, he pulled the man towards him. "We can fuck," he said in a low, hard voice.
JC heard a low gasp and realized it was his own. He had been babbling when Dylan sat in his workshop, the man's steely presence dominating the room like a king in his throne. He hadn't entertained any serious fantasies of he and Dylan no matter how attractive Dylan was, because he knew he had no chance of actualizing them. Well, looked like he was wrong, and his barely crystallized desires now seized hold of him as he drowned in the savage, almost inhuman desire burning in Dylan's eyes.
Dylan burned for him.
Flattered and aroused at making this man lose control, JC didn't fight when Dylan covered his body over his on the rug on the floor. The man's mouth savagely closed over JC's, roughly forcing him to part his lips and let Dylan's tongue surge inside. JC did, crying out, his cry muffled by Dylan's mouth as the latter sucked on JC's tongue, his own tongue licking and prodding at JC's. JC sighed as Dylan's stubbled chin burned his, and he clawed at the tight, rounded buttocks of the other man. Dylan gave a savage and incoherent growl as he lifted his groin slightly, never breaking their kiss as JC tore at Dylan's trousers. Dylan's own hands worked on JC's belt and jeans fastening impatiently.
JC threw his head back and gave a low guttural cry of pain when Dylan, his pants pushed down to the middle of his thighs, thrust his lust-inflamed penis like a forging firebrand through JC's quivering pucker, forcefully tearing apart JC's tightly clenched anal walls to accommodate his thick cock. As warm rush of moisture and heat closed around the tight, convulsing grip of JC's anus on Dylan's cock, Dylan gripped JC's chin in bruising hold, forcing JC to look at him as he gritted his teeth and bucked his hips.
Each hard, shallow thrust of Dylan's hips sent his swollen cock ramming violently against JC's prostate, causing JC to convulse as white sparks of pleasure surged up his spine. JC's fingers clenched Dylan's taut butt cheeks, his voice alien to his own ears in his rising lust, screaming at Dylan to fuck him harder. Dylan's fingers roughly closed around JC's bucking, throbbing cock, and started pumping JC in rhythm with the pumping of that thick cock up JC's steaming asshole.
Then JC cried, shuddering as his orgasm splintered. Hot, thick sluices of semen splattered on his shirt with each gasping breath of relief. Then Dylan was with him, his shout of climax muffled in a bruising kiss with JC, as his cock in one savage lunge tore apart the last of JC's resistance. The thick head penetrating so deep up JC that the heated, molten velvet of the man's rectal embrace on his sensitive cock head triggered his climax. His copious ejaculation spilled forth, flooding JC so high up the man's rectum, the heated juices cooling the warm, steaming flesh of JC's anus as well as prostate that JC convulsed, his body wracked by a second earth-shattering orgasm so intense that he screamed.
Dylan looked down at the barely coherent man under him. He grinned, moving up only to remove his sweat-soaked shirt and JC's. Sighing in pleasure at the feel of his hairy chest pressing to JC's smooth, sweat-slicked chest, their nipples rubbing against each other's skin in burning pleasure, he waited until JC's breathing was normal. Then he surprised JC by resuming the pumping of his still hard cock.
JC didn't say anything -- he couldn't say anything -- he just groaned in delight as his ravaged asshole got yet another thorough rogering by this incredible man, and prayed that he could survive this with his sanity intact.
Dylan sighed later that night as the hot water in the tub eased his tired joints. Perhaps fucking JC for the eighth time in a period of fourteen hours was pushing his stamina a little too far. He had called Greg and asked the man to cover for him for the next day, and now he closed his eyes, thinking that life was good.
Especially with JC snuggling up to him in the tub. "So, how about I drop by every Friday evening and spend the weekend with you?" he asked the half- asleep man. He wasn't looking for a weekend companion, but he found one nonetheless, and he, for one, wasn't complaining.
"Okay," JC murmured, lost in his delicious languid after-fuck haze.
TWO
Two months later
"Well, what do you think?" Dylan said, sitting against the doorway of his private art room. His shirt was unbuttoned and his trousers were carelessly fastened, his still wet and slippery cock causing a dark stain at the crotch.
JC stood nude in the brightly lit and carefully temperature-regulated room, looking impassively at the many artworks in the room. Dylan's eyes feasted hungrily at JC's body, his territorial instincts giving an approving hallelujah at the sight of his semen still smearing JC's thighs. They had fucked most energetically at the hallway outside, and Dylan had all intention of performing an encore in this room.
"I didn't know you bought all my art," JC said softly.
"You're good. And I buy only the best." Dylan pointed at the art on one far wall. "See? That's an original Monet. Cost me eight million dollars."
"I didn't know lawyers can afford such things," JC said, his voice calm even as he died slowly inside.
"Old money," Dylan said almost sheepishly. "My great grandparents were oil barons."
JC didn't hear anymore. It was stupid for him to allow Dylan to bring him here to the man's large mansion. At least in his own workshop, he could imagine that there, at least, Dylan and he were equals. Somehow along the two months Dylan dropped by each weekend, JC had stupidly enough started to imagine impossible things, such as maybe one day Dylan would wake up and care for JC the way JC, stupid JC, was starting to care for him.
How could he not care for Dylan? Dylan was charming and brilliant, and he made JC believed that JC was the only man that mattered to him. It made JC feel invincible when he could make Dylan lose all his civilized polish and take JC roughly, even begging when JC teasingly toyed with him. And JC had started to sculpt, his inspiration singing like it never had, and he worked, carving out his thoughts and emotions into wood and metal.
Right now, however, standing in this sterile room with all the priceless art in display, he thought he ought to be flattered that Dylan considered his work worthy of a place beside Monet. Instead, he was bleeding inside because he had a nagging suspicion that his art mattered more to Dylan than the person. And for once, he considered his friends' warning -- that Dylan was notorious for bedding whoever artists caught his flighty fancy, and then discarding them when some newer fancy caught his interest.
Yet his treacherous body leapt in welcome when Dylan stood behind him, fully nude, pressing that splendid, well-formed cock against his back. "Your art is perfect," Dylan murmured, not knowing how his words were like a sharp knife through JC's heart. "I have never seen anyone who could translate his emotions into sculpture like you do."
At that moment, JC hated his art with a vehemence alien to him. But when Dylan gently pushed apart JC's legs and let his cock glide smoothly up JC's ass, JC placed his hand against the wall and closed his eyes, holding back unshed tears. As Dylan's hand closed around JC's cock and his hard-muscled and hairy thighs started thrusting that cock in and out of JC, JC's heart shattered even as his body hummed in indescribable pleasure.
"He's a sex machine, he can go on for hours."
"Too bad his attention span is as short where his stamina isn't."
JC froze in the toilet cubicle as he listened to the two strangers talking outside.
"He dumped me for Gerard," the first person spoke.
"He dumped Gerard for me, and me for the sculptor."
The sculptor was he, JC supposed, as he felt the pain of disappointment and broken dreams wash over him. Today was supposed to be his proudest day, as Dylan had magnanimously allowed his personal collection of JC's work to be displayed in the prestigious and elite Art Festival. Instead he was having the worst time of his life. Dylan was still the gentleman who lavished his attention to JC, and his interest both in and out of the bedroom was as unflagging as always. Yet Dylan always held a part of him back, even in the most rapturous climax, and JC resented the man more and more for that. Especially since JC didn't hold anything back.
"I hope poor JC doesn't fall in love with Dylan," one of the fellows outside said. "I hate to wish upon him the way I contemplated slashing my wrists the day Dylan told me we were going nowhere."
"Yeah, I used to hate everyone who got Dylan after me. But it's silly. In a way we are all idiots and victims of our own folly. You're right, I hope JC doesn't fall for Dylan. He's a bitch. Dylan can't feel any emotion for anything except his precious art collection."
"I pissed in his precious Ming vase the day he kicked me out," the man said, giggling.
JC didn't listen anymore. All he knew, at that moment, was that he had joined the ranks of the two persons outside. He had somehow fallen hopeless, stupidly, in love with Dylan McDermott.
"I've been looking all over for you," Dylan said, finally cornering JC. "Why are you avoiding me? I don't like that."
"I'm not avoiding you," JC lied, surprised that he could be so calm.
"Are you ashamed of being seen with me?" Dylan asked.
The question caught JC by surprise. "Why should I be ashamed of you?"
"Well, I'm a leech," Dylan said with an embarrassed grin on his face. "I can't paint or sculpt to save my life, and I can only collect and buy artworks. I've been in this circle long enough to know the disdain you artists heap on us leeches who don't have a hint of your talent but make you dependant on our charity and patronage."
"I have no idea you feel this way," JC said, really caught off-guard by Dylan's solemn words. "But no, I don't feel that way."
"Which is why I didn't offer to be your patron, you know," Dylan said softly. "I am afraid you'll start seeing me as a... well, leech. And I can't bear that."
JC refused to let his hopes rise at Dylan's words. He wasn't stupid. He refused to be stupid. "I think I want to go home," he said quietly.
"Good idea." Dylan hesitated. "JC," he said, "do you think our relationship is going nowhere?"
JC shocked them both with his hard slap across Dylan's face. He stared at his hand and the red bruise on Dylan's right cheek in horror. Worse was the shock and then pain in Dylan's eyes, as Dylan touched his cheek tenderly.
A small velvet box clattered onto the floor from Dylan's hand. Like a moth drawn to fire, JC reached down for it. Inside was a small gold ring with a glittering epidote gem framed by tiny diamonds. He was aware that his mouth was wide open in shock, but he couldn't say a word nor do anything, not when his brain wouldn't work.
"I just want us to -- never mind." For the first time since JC saw him, Dylan looked uncertain and bewildered. "Stupid of me, really, to even think of it."
"I'm sorry," JC whispered.
"Yeah, me too." Dylan looked at the ring in JC's hand wistfully. "You think I can change your mind? I know I have a reputation of screwing over artists, but this time I'm very serious. I wish I have a nice, rational explanation of why I would treat you special compared to the others in my past, but all I can say is, JC, I know you're the right guy for me. There's no logical explanation that I know of, but I want you to be in my life." He hesitated again. "For as long as you wish, and even then I'd appreciate an advanced warning, so that I can try my best to convince you to stay."
He could walk away now, and be safe in the knowledge that he didn't risk his heart with Dylan. But JC was never a practical man. He looked at Dylan, raised his left hand, and placed the ring into his ring finger. May he not regret this indeed, dear God. "There," he said as nonchalantly as he could, "I'll do it."
Dylan's laughter stunned everyone in the vicinity. They watched, amused, when the usually cool Dylan lifted JC into his arms and swung the man around, laughing merrily.
EPILOGUE
Annette McDermott read the postcard from Greece and smiled happily to herself. Dylan had refused to speak to her for one month after she told him of her deception, but he knew in the end Little Sister knew best.
"I never knew you're such a devious matchmaker," her friend Ryan Phillippe said, his normally serious angelic face breaking into a mischievous smile.
"Hah, look who's talking," Annette snorted.
"Hey, I only offered the idea. It's you who went ahead and implemented it." Ryan looked at the postcard, which said simply 'Annette -- okay, you're right. Damn you. Love, Dil'. "But it is a very good idea, isn't it?"