THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Dylan

Written by Lady Poetess
egiggles at moose-mail.com
http://www.asstr.org/~bbp

Please do not reproduce on any website without permission. This
story 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?"
