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I knew what I was getting into. I’d heard of Lawyer John’s notorious parties through the grapevine for years. My friend Con, who was a filthy gossip, pointed him out to me a few times in the nightclubs of Belfast. Lawyer John (our nickname for him) was pretty to miss though given his overall “too-hot-to-stay-in-Belfast” looks and physique. Lawyer John was a suave stunner in his mid-forties, with a gym fit body and expensive tousled “salt and pepper” haircut. He should have been modelling suits for Gucci or something, and not raising the bell-curve for us poor mortals who didn’t have any other option but to stay here in the North, drowning our sorrows as we were that night. Northern Ireland once again performed abysmally in rugby, getting trashed by the All Blacks earlier that day. Con’s favourite pastime, after a few jars, was nodding his head over at some poor trick in the club and divulging all his nasty secrets. Usually they involved Con, a quirky fetish and/or an STI. Con was an old-school gossip and would always start off in his thickest working class Belfast accent with the line “Didja ya see that wee lad there righ? Well…” At this point our posse would be leaning forward wondering what new tale of desperation or filth we were in for. With Lawyer John, Con would always drink deep from his Guinness, nod over at him and then launch into the following tale. “Did I tell ye lads about our friend Lawyer John over there. Mike (this was me) knows, but I’ll tell the rest of ye. Steer clear of that fucker. A right nasty piece of work they say lads. They say he hosts these parties y’see. Where all the A-gays of Belfast go and get gee-eyed out of it on G and E and coke and whatever else you’d be having. No condoms, no fucking sense, and a few prossies hired up from London or wherever. He works over in the courts too, so he should know better. Anyways, the parties always get really fuckin wild, and to hear tell of it, at one of the last ones there was a lad who overdosed. Some fucker up from Fermanagh, still wet behind the ears and looking for his bit of freedom from his mammy and the farm, thought he’d try his hand at hooking. Anyways as the story goes, the lad reacted badly with the cocktail of drugs he was on and it wasn’t till after the party that they realised he was unconscious and had been for about a day or two. It was then that they dropped him outside the Pipeworks sauna and called the police. Kid nearly died. Seemingly was left with some nasty nerve damage too. And that kid…” and Con leaned in here, building suspense, “is none other than Ugly Eoghan!” I’d heard it before so chuckled to watch the looks of incomprehension on our mates as they tried to fit the pieces together. Lawyer John was some jet-setting executive who probably had a sea of hot accountants who wanted him to write off their “bad debts”. Meanwhile Ugly Eoghan was the odd drunk that’d turn up outside the Kremlin as the crowd turned out in the early morning, trying to chat up the very, very drunk twinks outside. He worked the “going-home” crowd, cause he’d been barred from every gay establishment between here and Dublin. He was only in his early thirties, but had such a way with him that he looked at least ten years older and while there was nothing necessarily disfigured about him, he had a constant stoop, squinted eyes and a perpetually sneering mouth, so you couldn’t help but be repulsed by him. To think that this gay “character” had been created by the beautiful and sophisticated Lawyer John was a good yarn, but none of us really believed it. Sensing our disbelief, Con urged us “it’s true honest! Ugly Eoghan’s life wasn’t always the car-crash you see outside the chipper on a Saturday pawing at the twinks. But seemingly Lawyer John has high connections, and got the whole thing hushed up. The police, the other party-goers, even the sauna staff, everyone was hushed up”. We nodded as Con knocked back the rest of his Guinness and looked to see who was getting the next round in. He always got a bit conspiracy-ish after a few, talking one minute about chem-trails, and the next about how the fluoride pumped in Irish water was to keep people passive. A nudge knocked me out of my reverie. It was my round. I waited at the bar for the hot new barman Sven to get my drinks. Seemingly he had to learn how to replace a keg or something, but you’d forgive a white blond Nordic god a lot for a flash of his dopey smile, so I pulled out my phone and checked my apps. Grindr and Scruff were disappointing as usual, though my profile didn’t invite a lot of comment – it was just a torso like all the rest of them – showing off my six-pack from two years ago, which had since gone into a small hibernation. Not that most tricks minded. None of them looked quite like their photos either, and as long as I wasn’t, well, ugly Eoghan, and I shoved all nine inches of my cock into them, I heard no complaints. The only messages I had was from this hot nurse Gavin who I always had a great back and forth with, but who always chickened out of all the dates I suggested, to the point where I gave up trying. Sometimes I was in the mood to flirt with him, knowing it’d have no effect, but not today. Sensing someone pushing past me for a newly opened gap at the bar, I moved to let the guy settle in beside me. I did a very subtle double-take when I realised it was the devil himself – Lawyer John. He didn’t even notice me. He still had his head turned, taking drink orders off of some tall muscle-bound blond who’d be perfect as an extra in any World War 2 film, yellow blonde where Sven was white. I took the time to properly study the Lawyer-man up close. God, he was gorgeous. He’s one of those guys who looks so much better as a 40 year old than he ever would have as a 20 year old. His tailored shirt opening to show a defined lean body and sculpted lines across his collarbones, up his neck and in his deep dimples as he laughed at something the Aryan giant said. I waited for the polite “eye-contact” nod that in Ireland passed for “thank you for giving me space at the bar”, but the lawyer studiously turned forward and blanked me. Pfft. Whatever. I guess if you don’t look like you breathe the same rarefied air as these little gods, you may as well be invisible. I then heard the distinctive message tones from Gay-Romeo beside me. I looked over, and sure enough, Lawyer John had his phone out too. I guess little gods need a bit of help looking for love too. I noticed he was mostly scanning an app with a black and orange design. I leaned over a little further. It was called “BBRT” or something like that. I then heard the Sven clear his throat “Ah Mike, jour drrinks” “oh right, cheers Sven!” A few drinks more with the lads at the pub, then at Con’s house and eventually we’re all calling it a night. It’s proper late, by the time I’m back in my flat near the university, like 6am. I clumsily broke the laptop out and looked up this BBRT website. Bareback Real Time Sex, it said. I gulped a little. I’ve not usually been one for bareback – topping’s the same to me if I top protected or not, so I always chose the former. Up until this point I’d never successfully bottomed, with or without a condom, so I saw no attraction in barebacking. However, Lawyer John was on it, and who knew, maybe he was only a click or two away. I could beat off to some pics of him, no harm, no foul. I read through the usual preamble with starting an account, and then once I’d verified my email and put up the bare skeleton of a profile (Newry9inch), I got to seeing who was online in Belfast. This was a very different pool to the Grindr/Scruff guys. There were a few kinky bastards who revelled in anything pain related, a few kids that had the title Bug-Chaser in their profile and then me by the looks of it. Noone else was online. I went back to filling out my profile, deciding to put up a cock pic as my main profile pic (it wasn’t as if I was looking for friends or gym buddies on this site). Then after a bit more thought I added a headless nude shot and an over-the-shoulder arse pic. “Fuck it!” I thought and headed to the bathroom. When I got back, I was in luck. My inbox had three more messages from three different guys – not just the welcome bot. The first was a proper daddy type who wanted to spank my ass for being up so late. I chuckled, and politely declined. The next was from a blank profile online asking “u into scat?” I once again replied “cheers, but definitely not my thing. All the best”, cause I may be many things, but I always answer people, so there’s no ambiguity. I’m a motherfucking gentleman! The last was interesting. It was another blank profile “northernlights”, this time asking “u into pnp?” Now I won’t lie. I love me a bit of rolling with molly or speed-pumped sex, so this had my slut-senses tingling – could this be Lawyer John? I answered “could be. Why?” And waited… About half a minute later I get a reply. “We’re looking to score” and a link to a webpage within BBRT. I clicked through the link and it directed me to an expired party page from earlier that night– some sort of group page that BBRT did for people arranging group meets – wow BBRT really knew their audience! This page had the description “Party – Titanic Quarter for titanic men”. I snorted at that. The blurb below was written as if a size queen on meth – detailing all the types of men who could apply (a very select few) and all the guys who couldn’t. To be honest the description was a turn-off. One of those impossibly high standard parties that I wouldn’t dream of trying for after a few rejections earlier on in life. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I feel pretty hot – I rock the slightly rough/scruffy, three-day stubbled scally lad look, but I would never fit in with the built Abercrombie and Fitch crowd. My body was lean and I was an in-shape lad especially for my job (a journalist for a less than reputable paper… ok so, a tabloid journalist – it paid the bills) but I’d never have this party’s required “defined muscles” or “less than 5% body fat” (I kid you not – that’s what they wrote). The rest of post summed up that a group party had been organised (about 6 hours earlier) for the A-gays of Belfast. Good-fucking luck to ‘em I thought! I saw my inbox had another message and clicked it. Northernlights again. “u know any dealers?” I chuckled and then remembered something. Looking to my chest of drawers in the middle of the room, I pulled out my sock drawer and fumbled at the back. I pulled out my old metal tea-box that had my weed and the makings of my joints in, a few pills, and also… at the bottom… …Eureka!.. I found the bag of MDMA that my mate’s sister’s boyfriend’s friend left behind at a houseparty a year back. The lad went mental looking for it afterwards, but cause he was a dick I didn’t call him up a week later when I found it behind the coal bucket. It was about 10-15g of product, but I’d tried it, and maybe cause it’d be been left out somewhere humid, or maybe cause it was it was just a shit supply, but it did nothing for me. But there was enough here for a trade. Maybe I’d get some money for it finally? I messaged back. “None that are awake right now. My usual guy’s disappeared too. I’ve a bit of my own supply - MDMA here (10-15g), dunno how good it is, if you’re desperate? J” (Was the smiley too much?) Northernlights was quick to reply “Yeah would be up for that - could buy it – where u? Could send taxi round? We’re in X” Obviously I’m not gonna reveal where exactly the guy was – but it was a very swanky part of town. Northernlights sent me on details of the place and then signed off – “…Thanks lad. See you soon” No name. But honestly considering we’d just agreed to perform a crime online I could understand that. Nice one! I was gonna finally sell off my old stash and at least see what the inside of one of these exclusive parties looked like. The taxi came round 15 minutes later. I was barely out of the shower and into my cleaner pair of going-out trackies when I heard my phone go off. I grabbed my whole stash box and all the way there I was full of nervous jitters. I kept thinking I was going to end up at some weird “eyes-wide-shut” masked party. The apartment building was one of the very modern ones that went up as part of the Titanic quarter’s refurbishment after the peace agreement. I remember seeing it being built and even then thinking I’d never be able to afford living in a posh place like this. I rang the apartment bell. Elocution lessons answered; “Yars?” “Um, this is ahem, Newry….” “Oh roight! Yars yars, push the door when it buzzes” I made my way up. On the way up I kept formulating and reformulating the plan. See how much they were willing to pay to keep their party going. Get a good look around to see how to super-hot live and try to see a few fucking, to fill the wank-bank. Get them to order me another taxi. Would they stretch to a pizza too? Oh, but how to make sure this wasn’t an elaborate police op? Wasn’t that entrapment? Did that law even apply in Belfast? Better make sure to get them to do a line for free first. I got to the door. I rapped gently on it. No answer. I was about to ring the bell when the door opened and there in a red and grey silk dressing gown stood Lawyer John. A-Gay of Belfast numero uno! “Newry9inches?” he said, smiling at me, showing those dimples. Those goddamn beautiful dimples! I nodded mutely and he waved me in. He muttered something about doing business upstairs in his room as I looked around the split-level apartment. There were bags and clothes on most of the chairs and couches in the main entrance hall-cum-living room. The floor plan was pretty open and segued from living room to foyer to kitchen (which was divided from the rest by an outjutting counter) all across the entire lower floor. There were some shadowy figures in the extremities of the kitchen and living room, but before I could better make them out, John beckoned me up his stairs (solid oak beams projecting from the wall, no banistair, very swanky!) I clambered up behind him, getting glimpses of his very tan, very developed gym-toned legs, to come out on a long corridor landing. Everything was ivory tones and expensive looking. There were about four doors off the corridor – two guest bedrooms, the main bedroom and main bathroom. As we went into the main bedroom I saw the entire outer wall was one plate window giving a fantastic view back over Belfast City. The bed was massive and recently used and there was an en-suite bathroom to the left. John sat down on the bed and looked expectantly me… “The MDMA?” “Oh right, yeah let me just get that out” and I walked over to the desk. He followed behind me as I lay the bag of white powder on the table. I saw the remains of some other lines of powder there and a credit card. I turned to him. “Um, don’t take this the wrong way, but cause I’m not used to, um, normally, ever doing this, and how do I know this isn’t some police sting?” He laughed a rich baritone laugh at that and said something about the differences in UK and American law, and that he’d asked me to bring over with me to sell, which indeed would be a form of entrapment. He then smiled and said, “but if it makes you feel better, I can do a line in front of you now?” I nodded, and he took the bag from me and poured some out. Crushing it with his credit card he asked me to roll up a twenty-pound note as he scraped together four short lines. When he pulled back he waved me forward to do the first two lines – oh right – I weirdly hadn’t expected to be doing the MDMA in front of him, but fuck it. I ducked down, snorted them up and passed the twenty. Squeezing and pinching my nose I looked over as he rose from his lines. “So do you wanna sit down for a bit, to see if it kicks in?” I asked. He nodded toward the bed, snuffling back all the powder. I sat down on the edge, he sat beside me. “I think I saw you out earlier” I mentioned. He nodded. “Mike here by the way” “Simon here” he replied, extending his hand for a handshake and smiling. I started to feel something in the back of my brain, but I was never great with MDMA. “I think I’m feeling it” I mentioned, “but it’s always a bit odd for me, how about you?” I asked. He was raising his half-shut eyes and muttering to himself… Yeah he was definitely feeling something. “Oh yars Mark” “uh it’s Mike” “Sorry Mike. Yah I’m feeling it – that is …some good stuff you have”. He looked at me. His eyes were massively dilated. We said in unison “wow your eyes…” and trailed off and chuckled. I looked at this guy who only hours before had seemed a part of the frosty impenetrable A-gay elite rubbish of Belfast, and yet here we were now, bonding. It was beautiful. I felt Simon and I were having a special time outside of time and that I could suddenly confide totally in him. “You should laugh more dude, your dimples are gorgeous” He smiled at this, and replied, “you’re pretty cute yourself dealer-man” I got a cheeky thought “what else can you do to prove you’re not a police officer?” His deep chuckle was adorable. “Well what would you like me to…” We got cut off by a knock on the door, the en-suite door. “Hey Si, are you still with that dealer guy?” The door opened and a tall pale guy with jet black hair stepped in. He was wearing a towel around his waist and had obviously come from the shower. His body definitely fit into the 5% body fat category. I think I could have seen him on a Men’s Health magazine or something – he had a familiar look about him. Every random Latin-named muscle was on display and some new ones too I think. “This him?” he asked Simon. “Yeah, this mmmmm here is…. Mark..no Mike! This is Iain” Iain smiled and extended his hand to me. “Not named after the Reverend I assure you.” I laughed and still felt very odd to be shaking everyone’s hand at a sex party. He then turned to look back at the desk. His back was just pure sculpture. I looked over to see Simon/Lawyer John smirking at me, catching me ogling the beefcake mere metres away from me. I giggled and nudged him. Yeah ok maybe the MDMA was having an effect. I’d missed Iain’s request “What now?” Iain repeated himself “Is it ok if I sample a line or two” “Be my guest,” I sorta slurred out. Iain bent over the desk to crush out a line’s worth. I was looking at Simon. He had mischief in his eyes. “Iain” Simon called, “I need to prove something to Mike here” and reached over to his towel-covered ass. Tugging on the towel as Iain crushed his line, Simon succeeded on pulling the towel off, revealing Iain’s pale magnificent ass. Iain barely reacted, engrossed in his task. The twin globes were just that right blend of smooth and bubble-butt, spreading down into two tree trunks of thighs. A real rugby player physique! Oh shit, now I knew where I’d seen Iain before. He’s Iain the rugby player! The gay rugby player Iain Hawkins! He was the prop-forward for the Northern Irish team who’d recently come out and had all his family support him in the papers, and his… boyfriend! I watched him earlier today get trounced by the fuckin Kiwis! My tabloid journalist was itching at the size of the scoop I had in front of me. Belfast A-Gay number 2, Iain Hawkins prop-forward for Northern Ireland, showing me his incredibly fuckable ass, while doing Class A drugs. Another part of me took over as I refocused on that ass. “Mike” Simon called back to me, “I’m gonna do something I’m pretty sure no undercover cop would do” and with that licked a finger and started to pull Iain’s ass-cheeks apart. Then exposing Iain’s pink rosy hole, he guided the lubed finger into Iain’s hole. Working it in quite quickly I figured Iain had already been fucked this night. Simon replaced his finger with his tongue as he got up properly to rim his friend. I heard Iain groan in appreciation and follow it with one quick snort. I was rubbing my cock through my grey tracksuit bottoms. Simon winked at me and looked to my growing bulge. “Looks like your username wasn’t lying” I smirked and coyly asked “do you want to check for yourself?” as I stood up, raising my crotch to his head height. He used his free hand to snag my tracksuit bottoms down exposing my navy blue jockstrap and jutting nine-incher. Simon mouthed a “wow”, as most guys do. It’s not just nine or nine and a half inches, it’s also quite a thick girthy cock which often a lot of bottoms can’t work with – they think they can, but their eyes are too big for their asshole. Simon got to work, pushing the jockstrap pouch to the side and freeing my monster. As he started lapping on the underedge of my cock, I reached over and started rubbing Iain’s ass cheeks. Iain took another snort and wriggled his ass in appreciation, or at least that what I took his ass-wriggle for. Unopposed I moved both my hands to cup Iain’s ass, kneading and massaging, rearranging our trio so that I could bend over to rim Iain while still giving Simon clear access to my cock. Iain’s hole tasted beautiful. You could tell that the cunt has been used, I could even detect some cum that hadn’t been fully washed away. Damn right I’ll admit I look for a good sloppy-seconds ass when I’m whoring myself round. I steer the fuck away from virgins and twinks. Fucking a cum-dump’s ass where it’s cold and virginal on the outside, but hot and juicy at the core… mmm my version of heaven. After a few minute of rimming and sucking – Simon sure loved sucking my cock and I was feeling a little more adventurous. I was alternating my tongue and my two left fingers, playing Iain’s ass like a fiddle. Iain pushed his juicy orbs again back at us, Simon pulled off of me to come beside me and watch as Iain started twitching his ass. I kept a grip on his ass shoving my left thumb inside him. Simon grabbed and turned my cheek and we stared intensely into eachother’s eyes. Simon took a step closer and asked, “would a policeman do this?” and grabbed the back of my head pulling me in to a full-on kiss. Our tongues were running against eachother, his spit, my spit. As I kissed him passionately back I felt his robe fall open and felt my cock bounce and joust with his thick 7 incher. Every bit of his body was tan, including his cock. I ran my right hand up and down his defined body, running over each muscular ridge – I kept asking myself, was this really happening? I looked down to pinch myself and could see a pearl of precum had started to drip off of his hooded shaft. I started to bend my knees to lick up every drop from his precum-dripping cock – I love a dripper! However Simon held me back and wiped his steady precum flow onto my own spit slicked member. After milking himself this way for a bit, he grunted up at Iain, “look back for a second Iain” Iain, minor sports celebrity, minor gay celebrity for the UK had recently done a fashion-spread for GQ magazine with his boyfriend. Yet right then he was currently sporting just a white powder moustache and a smile. He looked back over his shoulder at my proud nine-incher slick with Simon’s juices, as Simon tapped my cock against his twitching hole. “Oh yeah Mikey, shove that gorgeous stick into me” All thoughts of his boyfriend evaporated, all my thoughts of safety evaporated, I needed those ass-pussy lips on my poor naked cock and I needed it now! Ok yeah, the MDMA was definitely working at this point. I didn’t wait for a second request and shoved my tool deep in that slut’s hole. And what a fucking hole, it was a prime hole – medium rare/pink on the outside, juicy yet well done on the inside. I was a bit worried Simon’s precum wasn’t enough lube, but Iain already had a least two loads in him giving my cock the lovely cream covering as I churned that gut-butter up. I gave that rugby player a fucking penalty, conversion and a try. In fact I lost myself so much in pounding that perfect white arse's hole I didn’t notice Simon was gone. He had gone around to salvage the MDMA. It seemed I ploughed Iain a bit too heavily and now the prop forward had it all over him looking like some Japanese Geisha or some shit. “Oh shit dude, you’re gonna get so fucking high” I laughed, but I didn’t stop pounding him.
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