11

I tried his phone. A message said that the number was unavailable. I texted him—call me asap, are you ok, where are you—but there was no response. With a growing sense of dread, I emailed MI6. Panoply had gone missing. Tracking device obsolete. Cell phone not responding. I gave them the number, in the hope they could work some magic. I did not tell them that I had started to care about Oz. Did someone know that he had been telling me things about Vaughan’s business dealings? Last night he’d been beaten and drugged—was that a warning, or a failed attempt at murder? Was it a message to me—this is what happens to people who snitch? Had they come for him?

Why would Vaughan care so much about Oz? How could he be a threat? Had he told me more than I realized?

I racked my brains. Had he said anything about America, or about the Lukas fight? Anything at all that might suggest Vaughan was communicating with terrorist groups in the US? Sure, he told me about the sex work, he turned up at my apartment off his head on drugs, but that was hardly classified information. Jackson himself, the most trusted of Vaughan’s inner circle, was recruiting me into the same profession. Perhaps Oz was just the victim of a sex game that had gone too far. He came running to me, and then, when he woke, he tidied up and disappeared. Perhaps he’d run away from all of us—including me. Maybe, by now, he was far away, starting a new life.

But there was another, more compelling theory. Oz, like other Vaughan boys before him, had been disposed of. He was out of control, and that constituted a threat to the whole Vaughan operation. Whatever happened last night, someone had decided to terminate him.

Why hadn’t I stuck another tracking device inside him? Oh, shit, Dan, you’re a thoughtless bastard. This made me angry for about ten minutes. Then I got myself back on mission.

Time to get ready for the show. Get into character. For Greg Cooper, this was a chance to get some extra pussy and to ingratiate himself with Alan Vaughan. To prove that he was trustworthy, to penetrate the inner circle of the organization. A little light wrestling, which he would easily win, and three holes to fuck. Kieran, Dakota, and Oz—that’s what I’d been told, and that was what I must expect. Maybe, despite my fears, Oz would show up.

I sat on the floor and cleared my head. Focus on your goals, Greg. Focus on their holes. I thought about each of the boys, lying defeated on the mat as I pinned them, my cock ready to slip inside them, one after the other, and the faces out there in the dark watching me, wishing they could be me. Kieran, with his pale skin, his freckles, his rose-pink nipples. Dakota, all cocky arrogance until the dick was inside him, then he squirmed around like a cat in heat. And Oz . . . no, Greg, don’t let yourself worry, just focus on that hairy ass, the cheeks held open, his eyes closed, black eyelashes fluttering as he feels me opening him up, pain and pleasure on his face . . .

My cock was hard, my mind was clear, and that was the moment when the balance tipped in favor of Greg Cooper. Dan Stagg was dead, wasn’t he? Let him stay that way.

I got to City Fitness at five; I was early. Jackson called me into the office.

“Good news,” he said. “Craig Lukas is back in the match.”

“So you don’t need me.”

“Oh, yes, we need you. Mr. Vaughan says it’s a dream lineup. You and Lukas versus Kieran and Dakota. The audience will love it.”

“What about Oz?” Damn: the words were out before I could stop them.

“We bumped him. He was always the weak link in the chain. He’s no good at fighting.”

Think like Greg Cooper. Don’t show concern. “He’s a good fuck, though. Very good.” Jackson looked nettled by that remark. “One of the best, in fact.”

“I’m not the jealous type, so don’t try.”

“Don’t worry, boy. There’s plenty of me to go around. You’ll always be top of the list.” I grabbed his ass and pulled him towards me. “Want a little taste?”

“Are you fucking mad?” Jackson’s face was dark with anger, or possibly lust. Either one suited me.

“Okay, okay. What can I do to help? Is there a van that needs loading, or anything?”

“You can help the others get ready.”

“What does that involve?”

“You should know better than anyone. Make sure they’re washed and . . . you know. Clean.”

“Seriously? You want us to douche?”

“You’ll find the equipment in there.” He jabbed a duffel with his expensively shod toe. “Mr. Vaughan insists that these events are hygienic.”

“Fuck me. He’s scared of a bit of shit?”

“It’s not just him. It’s the clients.”

“I fucking hate closet cases.” Jackson said nothing. “Don’t you?”

“I’m not paid to think,” whispered Jackson. “Now please just . . . get on with something, and leave me alone.”

I went out to reception to wait for my fellow sportsmen, content that I’d found the chink in Jackson’s armor. He was growing tired of the lies and evasions of Vaughan’s world. Money is a great anesthetic, but like all anesthetics, it wears off.

Kieran and Dakota arrived together, and I sent them off to the bathrooms with their little individual enema kits. Neither of them complained.

Craig Lukas was late. Six thirty, six forty-five, seven o’clock came and went. The party was due to start at eight, and it was a half hour ride out to the suburbs. If Lukas didn’t get here soon, we were one man down. An idea occurred to me. I went through to the office.

“Lukas isn’t here.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Jackson was furious.

“Call Oz instead. He’ll be fine. I’ll make it look real.”

“No, no, he’s . . . on another job.” There was just enough hesitation to confirm my fears: Oz had been removed. “Lukas will be here.”

“How are you going to make that happen, Jackson? You going to wave your magic wand?”

“If you don’t mind, I have a few calls to make.”

I didn’t move.

“Private calls.” He pointed towards the door. I let him sweat for a minute, then left him to it. He couldn’t be calling Vaughan, who was, as far as I knew, in transit over the Atlantic. What was the urgent, secret business? Last-minute party arrangements? Or was there more? Was Jackson deeper into Vaughan’s criminal activities than he let on?

Lukas arrived, scowling, hunched, like an angry child. He was wearing a suit and tie, as if he’d just been dragged away from a board meeting. Beads of sweat were shining on his forehead.

I went on the attack. “Where the fuck have you been? You’re over an hour late.”

Lukas bunched up his fists and lowered his brow, then thought better of it. Someone—I suspected Vaughan himself—had done a good job of persuading him that cooperation would be very much in his interests.

He said “I’m sorry,” and stared at the carpet.

“You’d better go to the bathroom, and make it fast.” I handed him an enema kit.

“What the fuck is this?”

“You know what it is. Do you want to do it yourself, or shall I do it for you?”

“I won’t fucking need it.” Ah—he knew the rules, then. Loser gets fucked. He was planning on beating me. But my combat training could whip his boxing any day of the week, and he knew it.

“I don’t think our client will be very happy if you shit all over his expensive carpet.”

Poor bastard looked as if he was going to burst into tears, but he trotted off to the bathroom like a good boy. Kieran and Dakota looked at me with something like reverence on their faces.

The party was in full swing by the time we got there; nobody seemed to notice that we were late. They were all in the lounge—or one of the lounges, there seemed to be several of them. As we unloaded the gear (crash mats, clothing, towels, oil, a set of scales borrowed from the gym) we could hear them talking, laughing, the braying sound of a large group of men. Captains of industry, successful retailers, senior police officers, football managers: it looked like a Masonic lodge. I glimpsed them through the half-open sliding doors, all silver hair, shiny foreheads, cashmere sweaters and open-necked shirts. There was a whiff of aftershave and cigars, a clink of glasses, the popping of corks. Vaughan knew how to entertain. A waiter in tight black pants, white shirt, and black vest came strutting through the hallway with a tray of empty glasses perched in his upturned hand; I wondered if he, too, was on the menu.

We set up in the dining room. Chairs had been pushed to one end and arranged in a semicircle, and the table was against the wall. This left a large space for the performance. We laid out eight large mats, and dragged the scales into position near the chairs. They were the old-fashioned type with a vertical stand, a horizontal crossbar, and sliding weights. I had been instructed to get them right up at the front, near the audience.

When everything was in place, we got changed in a small room off the main entrance hall. Our outfits were the Lycra wrestling singlets that you’re probably familiar with from adult websites: one-piece with integral shorts, so tight that they leave nothing to the imagination. I checked the labels; they were all small. Pulling the shoulder straps up had the effect of pushing the cock and balls into extreme relief.

Kieran and Dakota were clowning around, popping their dicks out of the leg holes, wiggling their asses around; they were more than ready to go out there and entertain. Lukas was finding it harder to get into the party spirit.

“This is fucking humiliating,” he said, his Welsh accent more pronounced than usual. “I’m not a fucking whore.”

“Of course you’re not,” I said. “You’re not getting paid for this.”

Lukas looked confused, his brows contracted. He was kind of dumb, like most boxers. All those blows to the head. He stood there in his shorts and T-shirt, unwilling to make the final change.

“Hey, cheer up,” I said, as I stepped into my singlet. My dick was swinging around. “What’s the worst that could happen? You get this up your ass.”

“Fuck off.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad. Is it boys?”

Kieran and Dakota grinned and sniggered, waiting for Lukas to get naked.

“What? You’ve . . . both of them?”

“Yes. Although not at the same time. Yet.”

“Jesus.” Lukas scowled, as if trying to figure out how that might work.

“Come on, Craig,” said Dakota, turning around and waggling his ass towards Lukas, “it’s your turn tonight. Better than any pussy you’ve had.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Lukas repeated, although he didn’t sound too sincere. His eyes followed Dakota’s ass up and down, side to side. He licked his lips and cleared his throat.

“And what about this one,” I said, taking Kieran’s chin in my hand. “Like getting your dick in here?” I rubbed his lips with my thumb, and he started sucking. “Bet you’d like that.”

Lukas still looked angry, but his cock told a different story. It was obviously hard, like a rolling pin down his shorts, and getting wet.

“You need some help getting changed? I’m sure the boys will oblige.”

He didn’t have time to say no before Kieran was on his knees, pulling Lukas’s underpants down over his huge, hairy thighs. His cock sprang straight out, precum glistening at the tip. Kieran took the shaft in his hand, looked up at Lukas with those big blue eyes, and started licking the piss-slit. Dakota was rubbing himself through his Lycra shorts, and I was getting hard too.

“Okay, that’s enough. Ding ding. End of round one. Dicks away, everyone. Kieran, let it go. On your feet. Lukas.” I bunched up a bright red Lycra singlet, and threw it in his face. “Put this on, if you can get that thing into it.”

He stripped off his T-shirt. His torso looked fine, the hair clipped close but still covering him from collarbone to crotch. “They won’t have any cameras out there, will they?”

“No. This is a private affair. Nobody wants their picture going on social media.”

“You sure?”

“Craig, the guys out there have even more to lose than you have, believe it or not.”

Eventually, after a lot of wriggling and rearranging, we were all four of us squeezed into our outfits, two red (Lukas and Dakota), two blue (Kieran and me). I went through to the lounge. “Gentlemen, the contestants are ready, if you would like to make your way to the function room.”

The event had been well organized. I’d been fully briefed with a running order, even a script. Vaughan knew what his clients wanted, and he trusted me to deliver it. If things went smoothly tonight, I was part of the inner circle.

There was a cheer, and an immediate surge of movement towards the dining room. I ran ahead and joined the guys on the mats. We warmed up with skipping ropes as the audience took their seats. There was fierce competition for the front row, the alpha males banishing the betas to the back.

When everyone was settled, I folded up my rope and stepped to the fore. “Gentlemen, we have three bouts for you tonight, two heats and a final. You will be responsible for deciding the result of each. When an overall winner has been declared, you will decide on the penalties for the losers. May I remind you that the use of cameras and recording equipment is strictly forbidden. If you have not already done so, please leave your phones and any other devices in the trays provided.”

There was a certain amount of shuffling, and one or two smartphones were handed over to the waiter. The audience settled.

“But first—the weigh-in.”

They cheered. This, I had been told, was one of the most important parts of the show. We were to be lined up, weighed, measured, prodded and poked like the pieces of meat we were.

“First, for the blue team, Kieran McAvoy, twenty-four years old.”

Kieran stepped on to the scales, and I adjusted the weights. “Seventy-two kilos, gentlemen. That’s 158 pounds. Just over eleven stone.”

“Get him naked!” bellowed one of the guys in the front row, a heavyset sixtysomething with a red face and white hair. He’d obviously been enjoying the champagne. The rest of the audience cheered its approval. There were about twenty of them, ages fifty and up, behaving in exactly the rowdy manner that men display in strip clubs.

“You heard him, Kieran. Get it off.”

Blushing, he pulled the straps over his shoulders and stepped out of the singlet as the audience roared its approval. There was a sheen of sweat on Kieran’s pale skin, and his cock had shrunk to its smallest size. Hands reached out from the front row to touch him; those at the back stood up to get a better view.

“Now, gentlemen, I must remind you to treat the contestants with respect. You will be allowed to touch them”—more cheers—“but if anyone tries to hurt them, I would remind you that I am an ex-US Marine and I’m trained in all the more deadly forms of combat. Okay?”

There was a lot of nodding and clearing of throats.

“Now, Kieran. Step forward, please.”

I steered him towards the outstretched hands. Fingertips touched his ridged stomach, his chest, his nipples. The bolder ones reached out and stroked his cock.

“Come and sit on my knee,” said the loud, red-faced man. “Let’s have a good look at you.”

Kieran did as he was told, his ass on the man’s knees, his body tilted back. The man ran his hands up and down Kieran’s torso and legs, lingering over his cock. Kieran’s eyes were closed, his lips parted. He was starting to get hard. Other hands joined in the groping until every part of Kieran’s body was being stroked and squeezed. He shifted around, and extended his legs over the neighboring laps, lying back, thrusting his groin in the air. He was now fully hard, and didn’t try to push away the hands that were exploring his ass.

“Next, we have Dakota, aged nineteen. Step up to the scales, Dakota.” He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, making no attempt to disguise his erection. He couldn’t wait to dive in. “Dakota is 75 kilos, 165 pounds.” He stepped off the scales, and started stripping before he was even asked. His dick smacked up against his hard belly as he freed it from the Lycra. He worked the front row like a pro; presumably he had plenty of experience. I’ve seen go-go boys in New York gay bars who were less professional than Dakota. That girl friend, if she existed, must be mighty broad-minded. He ran his hands down his chest, emphasizing the musculature, and he played with his hardening dick. Everyone was given one brief touch before he moved on, ruffling hair as he went. Kieran, meanwhile, had been lifted by several pairs of hands and was being passed through the air to the back row. His eyes were closed, head back, as he was kissed, licked, fingered, and stroked, giving himself over completely to the experience.

There was hardly any attention left when I announced the third contestant, but eyes turned as I said the name, and Craig Lukas himself stepped out of the shadows. Those who were not actively engaged with Dakota or Kieran gathered around the scales.

Lukas looked drugged. His mouth was slack, his eyes hooded, and he walked forward with a swaying, unsteady gait. He stepped on to the scales, his magnificent body gleaming under the lights. Hands reached out and touched him, stroking his arms, squeezing through the Lycra, even running up the solid length of his prick. Lukas stood immobile, head bowed, arms hanging by his sides, and did nothing to prevent the groping.

“Shall we undress him, gentlemen?”

An affirmative roar.

“Kieran! Dakota! If you could let them go, gentlemen, they have work to do.” This was off-script, but I didn’t think anyone would mind. The boys needed no further instructions. They stood on either side of the champion, pulling down his shoulder straps, rolling the Lycra down his torso, finally kneeling to pull the garment over his cock and down past his knees. When Lukas’s dick finally bounced free there was a gasp, and then silence. It was a mighty big piece, and it throbbed up and down as it swung between his legs. Perhaps because of Lukas’s celebrity status within the boxing world, nobody grabbed it right away.

“Now, gentlemen, to business. The first bout is between Craig Lukas for the red team, and Kieran McAvoy for the blue team. Freestyle. The first contestant to pin his opponent three times is the winner. No gouging, no biting, no scratching. And, of course, to make things more interesting . . .”

I took a bottle of baby oil and squirted it all over the mats.

“Gentlemen, take your places. And may the best man win.”

There was no doubt, of course, as to who would prevail. We’d already seen this fight in a real boxing ring. I recognized some of the guests from the front row.

The oil made them lose their footing right away, and soon they were grappling on the floor, muscle sliding against muscle, Lukas’s dark skin against Kieran’s pale skin, hard cocks trapped between thighs, asses pulled open, holes exposed. I circled them, doing an impression of a referee, but really just enjoying the show. The crowd was silent, watching, breaths held.

Lukas pinned McAvoy within two minutes, pressing his biceps to the mat with his knees. Kieran winced in pain. Lukas’s big hairy balls were just inches from his face. For all his scowling and complaints, Lukas seemed to be enjoying himself. The cock was half hard.

I split them up, sent them to opposite sides of the mat, and restarted the match. Kieran’s pale skin was covered in pink patches where he’d been hit or squashed. His ass was shiny with oil; I wanted to slip a couple of fingers inside him myself.

“Round two!”

This time Kieran was fighting back, whether because he genuinely wanted to win or just to give the customers a good show, I’m not sure. He kept his stance low and used his smaller stature to get under Lukas’s feet. It was a good tactic, one I’d have advised myself, and it worked: within less than a minute, Lukas was sprawling on the mat, and Kieran threw a leg across his stomach, working his way up to a straddle position. The oil made it easy for him to slide along Lukas’s hairy torso, and for all Lukas’s attempts to push himself up with his hands and feet, Kieran clung on. I counted to ten, then shouted “McAvoy!”

They were in no hurry to break off. Kieran was sliding his butt up and down Lukas’s hard stomach, and every time he reversed, Lukas’s cock came into contact with his asshole. Both of them were erect now. The third and final bout would be interesting.

“Fuck him!” yelled a man in the second row, and there was much cheering and whistling. Men were standing to get a better look. Kieran started to bounce up and down, the muscles in his thighs tensing and straining.

I shouted “break,” much to the disgust of the crowd, but we had to keep up some pretense of actual sport. Judging by the precum swinging from Kieran’s dick, he was ready to get fucked.

“Gentlemen, this is the clincher. The winner of this match will wrestle the winner of the following match. And then you, the audience, will decide the punishments and rewards.”

Kieran and Lukas were at it right away, rolling around on the floor, shoving cocks and assholes in each other’s faces, making no attempt to wrestle. This was sex. Lukas grabbed Kieran’s buttocks at every opportunity, squeezing them, spreading them, while Kieran tried to get his face in Lukas’s groin. Finally Lukas flipped Kieran on to his stomach and lay on top of him, his hard dick disappearing between Kieran’s buttcheeks. It was enough for me to count them out and declare Lukas the winner.

The two combatants got up reluctantly from the floor, shining with sweat, oil, and precum. Kieran’s cheeks were red, his hair wet, and he looked ready to shoot a load at any moment. I dared not release him to the crowd; one touch and he be jizzing over their expensive knitwear. I directed them to seats on opposite sides of the room, where they could be seen and admired but not touched.

“And now,” I said, pulling down the shoulder straps of my wrestling singlet, “bout number two. Are you ready, gentlemen?”

They roared “yes.” Most of them preferred their meat young and tender, but there was enough interest in my hairy old body to prevent me from feeling unwelcome. And when I revealed my cock, which was about three quarters hard, my approval ratings soared.

“If you would be kind enough to release Dakota, sir . . .”

Dakota swaggered on to the mat, his prick bouncing with every step. Taking him down would be so easy. I let him get close enough, then shot my foot out, hooked it behind his Achilles tendon, and pulled. His feet shot out from under him and he landed on his ass.

“You fucking bastard,” he hissed, and from the look on his face he meant it.

I prowled around him, daring him to get up. It was tempting to get this over with; I could pin him three times in ten seconds if I wanted to, but there was a certain satisfaction to drawing out his humiliation. I like arrogant boys. I like puncturing their balloons and bringing them to a better understanding of their place in the world. That place is on the end of my cock.

“Come on, Dakota,” I sneered, beckoning him up. “You can take an old man like me down.”

He raised himself to a kneeling position, but I kicked his hand aside and he sprawled again. While he was down I planted my foot up his ass, and pressed my big toe against his hole. The audience laughed. This was the worst thing they could have done. Dakota liked being admired and adored, not humiliated.

He scooted across the slippery mat, and this time I let him get to his feet. His cock, which had been so stiff and proud while his sugar daddy was jerking him off, was small and shrivelled. My hand darted out, grabbed it, and squeezed. Dakota yelped.

I pulled him towards me with my other hand at the back of his neck. “Okay, pretty boy. You’re going to do as I say.”

He struggled, but even with the oil I held him firm. I moved my fingers from his balls through his legs to his ass, and suddenly lifted him up, cradling him in my arms. I brought his stomach right up to my face, licked along the ridges of his abs, then threw him over my shoulder. Dakota was light, and I could play with him like a doll. If he struggled, he’d fall. I walked around the mats, then rolled him down my arms and on to the floor. The hatred had gone out of his face; he knew he’d better behave himself, or he’d get hurt. I placed a foot on his chest, then slid it up to his throat; a little more pressure and he’d have blacked out. My cock was dripping. It seemed a shame to waste it, so I dropped to my knees, one on either side of his chest, pinned his shoulders with my hands, and positioned my dick so the precum landed on Dakota’s lips. He opened his mouth, and looked me in the eye. It was just too tempting to resist. A little shift of the hips, and my cock was in his mouth, fucking him gently, sliding against his velvety tongue.

The crowd cheered.

I withdrew, and pulled Dakota to his feet.

This time I attacked him from behind, slipping my hands up under his armpits and grabbing his shoulders. He flailed around, trying to get a grip on me, but it was hopeless. From there it was easy to go slowly to my knees, pulling him against me all the way, my cock pressed into his ass, his body fully exposed to view. I slipped my left forearm around his throat again, and let my right hand play with his nipples, his belly, and his cock. Despite the pain and the humiliation, or maybe because of it, Dakota was hard again. I stroked him until he was squirming around, close to the edge, his ass practically sucking my dick inside, and then I flipped him over, smacked him down on the mat, and pinned his shoulders with my elbows. His face was pressed hard into the floor, his nose bent out of shape. He struggled to breathe. I let him up before it became dangerous.

The fight had gone out of him now, he didn’t know if he was coming or going, whether he loved me or hated me. It felt good. I let him roll on to his back and catch his breath.

The third pin was quick and easy. Dakota got unsteadily to his feet, engaged me in a grapple for just long enough to give him a taste of control before I locked his arm behind his back, twisting so hard he screamed in pain and dropped to his knees. It was easy from there to push him over with my foot, hold him down with my hands on his biceps and, as the final gesture, kiss him on the mouth. His mouth opened, and my tongue went in. He squirmed on the mat, moaning into my mouth, utterly defeated.

Craig Lukas was a worried man as our bout started. While Kieran and Dakota sat aside and rubbed their sore places, well out of reach of the sweaty palms of the audience, Lukas and I squared up across the slippery mats. Of course I knew I would win, unless he got lucky and landed a punch straight to my face—but unless it was a straight KO I could still take him. I could kill him if it came to it, and he knew it. The swagger was gone. He knew he was going to take a beating, and that he would then get fucked in front of an audience. He glanced down at my cock, nervously licking his lips, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, shifting from foot to foot. Psychologically, I’d already won. I took my cock between thumb and forefinger and waved it at him.

“You want it, boy? Then come and get it.”

Outside this room Lukas would have punched anyone who said he wanted cock; he was the ladies’ man, the eligible bachelor, squiring beautiful models to launches and parties. But now things were different.

Some guys just need to have the element of choice taken away from them.

He tried to grab me by the arms; he was fast, but I was faster. I twisted away, spun on my back heel, and used the moment to rock him off his feet. He was down on the floor, looking up at me from cock level.

“Get up, boy.”

He didn’t like it, but what could he do? He may have had the looks and the muscles, he was probably ten, twenty pounds heavier than me, but I was in total control.

I had an idea. I put my hands around the back of his neck and jumped, wrapping my legs around his waist. He had no choice but to carry me, his cock rubbing against my ass, my cock pressed against his belly and chest. He staggered a few steps and then, top-heavy as he was, slipped on the mat and broke his fall with his hand. I got my feet to the ground just in time to prevent my full weight crashing on to his ribs. I straddled him, sat down on his cock, and bounced around on it. My dick was doing a dance all of its own. Lukas looked half winded. I grabbed his wrists and pinned him.

I pulled him to his feet and tripped him again, this time pinning him with my cock in his face; he didn’t even turn his away, just let me rub it over his lips. One more pin, this time with me on my back, Lukas lying on top of me, immobilized by my arms and legs, and the match was over.

“So, gentlemen,” I yelled, sounding like a fairground huckster—a voice I had only used on the parade ground—“what do you want to see first?”

There was a confusion of shouts, with all our names in various combinations, and the repeated syllable “fuck.”

I raised a hand for silence. “Let’s start with the losers. Boys, get over here.”

Dakota and Kieran stood on either side of me.

“Get down on your knees and suck some cock.”

Lukas and I stood side by side, panting, sweaty, hairy, while the two boys knelt in front of us. Dakota got to me first; Kieran took his position in front of Lukas. I caught the look between them, as Kieran cupped the big man’s balls and started to lick his shaft. This was more than just a job for them. The old me would have been finding ways to get them out of here, give them some privacy. The new me pushed Kieran around so that everyone could get a good view of Lukas’s dick entering his mouth.

Dakota, of course, was sucking like a pro, making sure the audience got all the good angles. All I had to do was put my hands on my hips and concentrate on not shooting too soon.

The audience was quiet now. Some of them were jerking off. This was what they’d come for. The sex show. It felt good being a whore. The thought nearly made me cum. I pulled out of Dakota’s mouth, and resumed my MC duties.

“And now, Lukas. On your fucking knees, pal.”

He did as he was told, and gave me a barely adequate blow job. Compared to Dakota’s skilled slickness, this was strictly beginner’s level stuff, but the look of concentration on Lukas’s handsome face was enough to keep me close to the edge. I’d teach him, even if I had to lead him around on all fours sucking every stiff cock in the house . . .

“And now for the fucking. Let’s see a show of hands, gentlemen. Who wants to see Craig Lukas take it up the ass?”

There was little doubt as to the outcome. Every hand in the place went up. Never underestimate the appeal of a straight man taking it.

“Okay, boys. Get me rubbered up.”

“For Christ’s sake . . .” whispered Lukas through gritted teeth. “This can’t be happening.”

I knelt down beside him. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll take it easy. Unless you want it hard.”

“Shit . . .”

He looked as if he was going to cry, but his cock was telling another story—stiff as a fucking iron bar, wet and drooling.

Dakota was trying to roll a condom on to me, so I stood up and gave everyone a good view. Lukas positioned himself on all fours.

“McAvoy! Lube him up.”

Kieran did his work well; Lukas’s ass was open, and I glided in without resistance. Lukas groaned and sighed and gave himself to me.

Fucking him on all fours was great—the view of his back tapering out to his massive shoulders was inspiring me—but the audience couldn’t see his face or his cock. I wanted them to see him cum as I pounded into him. So I pulled out, flipped him over, and raised his legs, the quads and hamstrings pumped and heavy. It was easy to push back into him, and now everyone had a clear view of his hairy torso and handsome, superhero face as he took my cock deep into his guts. Dakota and Kieran were spellbound, both of them hard. I could hear groans in the audience; I guess one or two of the guys had cum, which was the kind of ovation I welcomed.

I gave it to Lukas good and hard, and he took every inch. His dick never softened. His arms were above his head, his deep, furry armpits exposed, but at last he could stand it no longer and brought a hand down to his cock and started stroking. I guess that cumming in front of an audience of men while you’ve got a dick plunging into your ass means that your reputation as a heterosexual is kind of compromised, but Lukas was past caring. He needed to cum, and it only took a few strokes before jets of thick white spunk were feathering out all over his torso.

I kept going until I could stand it no more. I pulled out, whipped off the condom, and shot my load in Lukas’s sweaty face. Some of it went in his mouth, some of it hit him on the forehead, some of it rolled down his cheeks and chin. He didn’t turn away.

This left the two losers naked, hard, and ready for anything. I felt the time was right for a little audience participation.

“Okay, gents. Who wants to make these boys cum? I’m feeling generous. Two lucky winners get to give them a helping hand.” Every hand in the room went up. “Okay, you,” I said, pointing to the rich-looking Daddy that Dakota had chosen, “and you.” My second choice was one of the younger men in the room, not much older than me, who looked like he could be in the military. Cropped black hair with a bit of silver, a sports jacket, an open-necked shirt, and a conspicuous gold band on the third finger of his left hand. If I’d had to choose one for myself it would have been him, so he’d do nicely for Kieran. Perhaps later we could work something out, the three of us . . .

The boys went willingly to their appointed partners, sat on their laps, and let hands roam all over their bodies. This wasn’t going to take long. Dakota straddled his gent’s lap, facing him, and bucked up and down, his hands behind the guy’s head. Kieran lay back in the man’s arms and let him kiss him and wank him at the same time. He came first, shooting his jizz in an arc through the air, landing with an audible splat on the floor. Dakota made more of a show of his orgasm, leaning backwards, his abs tensed, as the guy milked his dick. The spunk shot over an expensive cashmere sweater. I guess it didn’t matter; he probably had a closet full of them at home.

My instructions were to get out of the party as soon as the show was over; Vaughan didn’t want the boys giving away any freebies. I herded Lukas and the boys back into our dressing room; we wiped up, dressed quickly, and made for the doors.

And it was just before we left the house—twenty seconds later and we’d have been out of there—that we heard the first shot.