by JD Ruskin
From the outside there was nothing to distinguish this house from any of the others around it. It was as palatial and well-kept as its neighbors a hundred yards away. The crew walked along the side of the house, past the garages (there were two), then through a plastic-covered opening in the wall. One of the first things they’d had to do was open a hole in the exterior wall large enough to allow an eight-person jetted tub to be craned in. Willy the foreman could only imagine it full of busty college-aged women; Brandt had a better idea of how it would be used.
Brandt was assigned to help build the structural supports for the centerpiece of the new bathroom: a huge shower made entirely of clear glass panels, with showerheads sprouting from all angles. A dozen house members could soap up here—more if they were particularly friendly—and Brandt noticed camera mounts surrounding the shower on all sides and in the ceiling. He marveled that the construction crew seemed not to understand the only use that could reasonably be made of such an installation. Then again, he might not have understood it two days ago, before he viewed the video on the site. The image of Trent, naked, thrusting energetically into the mattress, gave him a shiver—not just because of his furry ass opening and closing as he reared back and thrust forward again and again, but because Brandt knew that if he was successful, he too would be doing just that. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply.
“New guy! Here, grab this!” And he was back to the task at hand.
Throughout the morning, Brandt saw no one who worked at the house—they were clearly staying away from the construction site. He would have to figure a way to come casually across them.
“Willy, I need to take a break,” Brandt said, just before lunchtime. He hoped Willy would know what kind of break he needed.
“There’s a working bathroom through that door, to the left, at the end.”
Brandt opened the door and walked down the hallway. He found the bathroom and, after checking to be sure that there were no cameras watching him, started to poke around a bit. Several of the doors along the hall were locked, but he found one ajar. He approached slowly and heard the sound of someone within.
Brandt stood in the hallway and peered through the two-inch opening.
On the bed lay a man who appeared to be slightly younger than himself. He was wearing a towel around his waist, and a laptop lay open at the foot of the bed. He was stroking his chest almost absent-mindedly, and Brandt noticed that his nipples were erect. Then Brandt noticed that he had noticed the nipples were erect, and he grew slightly queasy. But he had to continue.
The young man on the bed slipped his hand down his lower abdomen and into the towel. He rubbed his cock, still hidden from view, and it clearly began to respond. He then unwrapped the towel from around his waist, and he lifted his hips as he pulled it out from under him. He tossed it off the side of the bed and then lay back, completely naked, with his erection growing rapidly.
Brandt wasn’t sure what he expected, but after watching Trent’s video two nights ago, he knew that these guys didn’t whack off the way he did. When he did it, it was for a release, and the less time spent the better. It was like blowing your nose—something in there needed to come out, and you got it out quickly and went on with your life. Not so the residents of this house. Trent had taken nearly an hour to jack off, shower, and then jack off again; it was an exercise in inefficiency, as Brandt saw it. This guy was going to be no better. He was currently playing with his balls (who does that?) and was in no hurry to start stroking his now lengthy, hard cock.
Brandt had been away from the job too long now and needed to get back. He took another look at the man’s body so he could identify him on the site that night—it would be good to know something about him—and his eyes rested again on that ponderous slab of meat between his legs. Damn, thought Brandt, before he could stop himself. He backed slowly away from the door and turned toward the construction zone.
Late in the day, as the crew cleaned up, Brandt was surprised to see the man he had watched on the bed earlier walk through the door and into the unfinished bathroom. He looked around for a moment, and then he sighted Brandt.
Oh shit. He must have seen me—I’m done.
The younger man walked over to Brandt and looked him boldly up and down. His eyes locked on the waistband of Brandt’s outrageous underwear, and a slight grin played across his face. He looked up at Brandt’s face and extended a hand.
“Hey, I’m Nick,” he said, as if introducing himself to the construction crew was something he often did.
Brandt looked at the hand—it was the one he had seen earlier today, cupping and squeezing Nick’s balls. Was he really going to shake that hand? Then two thoughts occurred to him simultaneously: first, that Nick had probably showered after his session, as they all seemed to, and second, that every man’s hand he had ever shaken had been an instrument of masturbation. The sudden sexualization of mankind—of men—was boggling to him. But he took Nick’s hand and shook it.
“Jason. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. I haven’t seen you before. Are you new?”
“Just started today. Quite a house you’ve got here.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Have you seen much of it?”
“No, I haven’t, and I’m not supposed to leave the construction area….”
Brandt was hoping to be talked out of this rule; Nick’s sly grin showed he intended to do just that.
“Well, why don’t I swing by at lunch time tomorrow and give you a little tour? When you’re on your break, they can’t really keep you from doing what you want, right?” Nick’s hand casually stroked his belly, lifting his shirt a bit to expose his tanned abs, ridged with muscle—muscle that Brandt had already seen. He winked to seal the deal.
Did he just wink at me? Brandt thought, panicking. Calm—stay calm.
“That’d be awesome. We break for lunch at eleven thirty.”
“I’ll see you then. And don’t worry about bringing lunch—it’ll be my treat.” Nick reached out and squeezed Brandt’s shoulder, then turned and walked back out of the bathroom.
I’m in, thought Brandt. Oh shit, I’m in.
He grabbed his phone, punched out a quick note to Donnelly: “Need to go see Bryce after work—more clothes for tomorrow.”
The response was immediate. “Good news! I’ll see you in a few.”
IN THE car after he picked up Brandt from the contractor’s shop, Donnelly asked for details on how the day went.
“Well,” Brandt started, “I got to see my first live production. Guy named Nick who just sprawled out on a bed and started going at it.”
“Right in front of the crew?” Donnelly gasped.
“No, stupid, he was down the hall and had the door mostly closed. But I could see him, and I think he might have been able to see me. He came in at the end of the day and introduced himself. I think he thinks I’m attracted to him or something—he was totally flirting with me. I think.”
“What do you mean, you think?”
“How do I know what it’s like when a guy flirts with you?”
“Dude, you’re a guy. I’m assuming you have flirted before? Sometime in your checkered past?”
Brandt rolled his eyes. “Yes, I have. But with women. That’s different.”
“How?”
Brandt stared at his partner. “How? You’re asking me how a guy flirting with another guy is different from a guy flirting with a woman?”
“Yeah, I am. I want to know.”
“Well, I’m not going to explain it to you. It’s just different.” At the moment, he couldn’t see clearly how it was different, and that bothered him. Luckily, at that point they pulled up in front of Camp & Dragg.
They walked through the door, and Bryce immediately sighted them. Brandt was, after all, still wearing the outfit Bryce had selected for him yesterday.
“And how are my favorite straight men tonight?” Bryce called in greeting as he swooped in on them. “I knew you’d be bac
k. Did the Ginch Gonch get ’em?”
Brandt had to smile in spite of himself. “You know, they did. I think they really did. Now, I need to go back tomorrow, and I need to kick it up a notch. Whatcha got?”
Bryce’s eyes lit up. “Oh, honey, I have just the thing. Follow me.”
Brandt followed along behind, and Donnelly rushed to keep up.
“As my dear mother used to say,” Bryce uttered breathlessly, “Get ’em hooked with Diesel, then reel ’em in with Dolce. Am I right?” He handed Brandt a pair of jeans that looked, to his straight eyes, just exactly like the pair he was wearing. But he nodded, afraid to seem like a bumpkin. Bryce smiled and tore off toward shirts.
“Now, this is chamois. Feel it, go ahead, feel it!” he urged, holding out the sleeve of a doeskin shirt to Brandt. Brandt felt it. It was soft, so soft, and yet strong. In spite of himself, he enjoyed it.
“And finally, simplicity itself. The domestic-partner-beater!” He held up a white, ribbed tank top that would probably have cost five dollars if made by Hanes, but here was forty-five because it was handmade in Italy. Brandt added this to his armful of clothes, and once again Bryce guided them to the dressing room.
The three of them were in the room when Brandt turned to Bryce and said, “I’m going to need another pair of—”
“Oh, darling, do you think I would forget? One does not send a package like that without proper wrapping. I will bring, you will try, they will love.” And he turned on his heel and disappeared.
Brandt, head spinning from Bryce’s frenetic energy, looked at Donnelly and saw his own bewildered expression reflected back. Five minutes with Bryce was like an hour in the gym.
The curtain flew open and Bryce reappeared with a box behind his back. “Well, shuck ’em off, straight boy! We ain’t got all day!”
Brandt took off his shirts, and then unbuttoned his pants and slid them off. He was standing in front of Bryce and Donnelly in just his bright orange Ginch Gonch briefs and his work socks.
“Now, these,” Bryce intoned breathlessly as he opened the package he’d been hiding, “are miracle workers.” They looked like standard black briefs, if a little briefer than Brandt was used to. “Come on, strip off those Ginchies and let’s go!” barked Bryce with a sweet smile.
Brandt was reconciling himself to giving up his modesty during this assignment, so he just took a deep breath, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his “Ginchies,” and pulled them down. Bryce’s sharp intake of breath startled him a bit, and he looked down to see if there was anything amiss in his junk. He could see nothing wrong, but he did take a moment to compare himself to what Nick had shown during his performance today, and he was surprised to find that he stacked up rather well. Feeling Bryce’s gaze locked on him, he stood up straight and waited for whatever Bryce had in store.
Bryce approached with the new underwear. “Now, these are Andrew Christian, another name your boys will be familiar with, and they are designed to show off your assets. Though to be honest”—he stared frankly at Brandt’s crotch—“you don’t need any help in that area. Still, these will make it impossible not to notice.” He handed them to Brandt, who slipped them on without any other thought than wanting to be covered up again.
He looked in the mirror and couldn’t see much difference.
“No, no! There’s a little pouch in the front that you slip your unmentionables into!” scolded Bryce.
Brandt pulled out the front of the briefs and tried to figure out how they worked. Donnelly giggled uncontrollably, apparently amused that his partner was about to be given a lesson in how to put on underwear.
“Here, allow me!” offered Bryce, coming to stand in front of Brandt. “Now, I’m a professional, so think of me like your doctor.” He pulled out the waistband and plunged a purposeful hand into Brandt’s briefs.
“Whoa there, what the fuck are—”
Brandt was halted by the feeling of his cock and balls settling into a pouch of their own. They felt free and yet supported, and he liked it very much.
“Oh, I see,” he whispered, amazed at what Bryce could accomplish.
Bryce, for his part, was rock-hard in his own pants—clearly he liked it very much as well.
In the mirror they all could see the gargantuan mound at the front of Brandt’s briefs.
“Oh. My. God,” they all said in unison.
“Well, that looks like a winner to me,” opined Bryce. “Anything else I can do for you gentlemen? Perhaps something for you?” he turned and asked Donnelly, an expression of solicitous hunger on his face.
“No! Nope, we’re good. We’ll take it all,” Donnelly said in a rush, and handed over his credit card.
As they left the store, Brandt said in a voice that brooked no discussion, “I need a drink.” He stood and looked from one side of the street to the other. Harley’s or Parasols? They were already on the Parasols side of the street, so Parasols it would be. Brandt headed purposefully for the door. Donnelly, the loyal partner, followed.
The maitre d’ sat them at a table for two outside nearest the sidewalk. Brandt had the distinct impression that they had been put on display, a suspicion confirmed as every passing head swiveled their way. He was reconsidering their choice of establishment when their waiter materialized.
“And what can I get for you this evening?” he asked.
“Something strong, I don’t care what,” grumbled Brandt.
“Surprise us,” Donnelly interjected, flashing a winning smile that Brandt knew was meant to counter his own brusque manner.
“It would be my pleasure to,” assured the waiter, who vaporized as quickly as he had appeared.
Donnelly looked at Brandt. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Brandt replied. This assignment was getting to him, and he couldn’t keep the stress out of his voice.
“You’re doing great,” Donnelly said reassuringly. “You’ve already started making your way in, and it’s just the first day.”
“Yeah, and I’ve also become a regular at a gay clothing emporium, I’ve had my junk handled by a salesman, and now I’m so desperate for a drink I’m about to be served something mysterious with a paper umbrella in a bar where the only women are actually men dressed up for the evening. As first days go, this one’s been a whopper.”
“Look, you’re just stressing because it’s an undercover assignment, and those are always hard at the beginning. You’ll get into it—once you’re comfortable being Jason, you’ll relax and it will come naturally.”
“I hope you’re right. But really, you have no idea what it’s like doing this.”
“Here we are!” the waiter announced as he returned. “One Walking Orgasm for the gentleman.” He set the large pink-and-orange drink before Brandt. “And one Closet Buster for the gentleman.” He set the tall, slender green drink in front of Donnelly. “Give ’em a suck and tell me I nailed you.”
Both men leaned forward and did as they were told. The drinks were delicious—and strong enough to be flammable. They nodded.
“You… nailed us,” Donnelly admitted, clearly hoping that this would excuse the waiter from the table. With a wink, he was gone again.
“Fuck,” Brandt said as he returned to his straw and took a deep hit of rainbow-colored alcohol.
“So what’s your plan for tomorrow?” Donnelly asked, once Brandt was halfway through his Orgasm.
“Well, I guess I’m a carpenter until eleven thirty when I have my dream date with Nick. After that, who knows? I’m hoping I’ll be able to make my way into the house if it goes well at lunch.” He drank some more. “You know, we should get back to my place and check this guy Nick out.”
“I thought you checked him out today.” Donnelly murmured with a good-natured grin.
“Funny. I mean try to find out more about him—what his profile says. It might help me get in with him.”
“Okay, but isn’t that stuff all made up anyway? I mean, do they tell anything real about them?”
“I
don’t know. But at least if I know what it says about him on the site, I won’t be flying completely blind.”
They finished their drinks, paid (the bill came with a phone number scrawled on it—Donnelly rolled his eyes and pocketed it), and drove back to Brandt’s apartment.
On the Str8 Frat Dudes website, they could find no one named Nick, so they began scrolling through the pictures until they found him. His name on the site, apparently, was Rick.
“Very undercover, right? He changed one whole letter. That’ll throw people off,” Brandt grumbled.
“You know,” sighed Donnelly with a weary shake of his head, “perhaps he doesn’t really care who knows that he’s doing this. Maybe his family is okay with it. Maybe his friends know all about it.”
Brandt looked at Donnelly. “Seriously? This guy jacks off on camera. For strangers. For money. Does that sound like something that he’d want his family to know about?”
Donnelly just shrugged.
Brandt clicked to view Nick’s profile. It was the standard breathless description that could be found in any of the profiles on the site—how masculine “Rick” was, how many girlfriends he had, how good he was at sports. There were links to a number of solo videos, and then a couple of group videos. Brandt hadn’t looked at a group video during his first visit to the site (Trent’s performance had made him close his browser and keep it closed), but now he clicked on one.
“Dude, really?” whined Donnelly, who was clearly still trying to get over the one video he had seen.
“I need to know how it works—what they do,” explained Brandt. What he didn’t say was that he wanted to see how Nick interacted with the other guys in the house, to determine whether he was the right one to use as a conduit. It was standard police work, Brandt assured himself as he watched the video window load up.
The video was titled “Wrestling Showdown,” and featured Nick and five other guys. It began with all six in singlets of various collegiate colors, and they paired up for initial bouts on wrestling mats laid out in one of the rooms of the house. It was clear from the beginning, though, that the guys were not going to be following standard Greco-Roman rules; they seemed more interested in ripping each other’s singlets off than in pinning their opponents. After this initial round, the tattered shreds of the singlets were torn away, leaving the men in their jockstraps.