Finding Hosea

"I'll think about it," I said, not wanting to tell him that all I wanted to do now was gather up Hosea's stuff and get out of there. I couldn't deny I liked his cock and what he could do with it, though.

"Come here and ride me," he growled.

I'd seen that coming, as he'd pulled the waistband of his briefs under his balls and was stroking a mighty fine erection. I had no pride; I always was motivated by a good erection on a man.

I backed the wheelchair to a wall, straddled him, facing him, lowered myself on his cock, and rode him, using the leverage of my feet against the wall behind him and my grip on his biceps to raise and lower myself on his shaft. He voiced approval of the position and jacked me off with one of his hands as we fucked. The handles of his wheelchair were thumping on the wall in a reminder of the noises I'd heard from the locked room behind the kitchen the previous night.

We came almost together. I loved the cock but was frightened by the man and something here seemed very not right.

An hour later, he was gone for a few hours, picked up by a transportation service to go to a doctor's appointment. I promised to run the vacuum cleaner while he was gone and to plan a lunch for him.

My vacuum playing led me into the bedrooms. In the one I figured that Lek was using, I found about the same thing I'd found in Hosea's room. There was little evidence that Lek was gone. If so, he'd left a lot of his clothes and other belongings behind.

Enough of this shit, I thought. I went back into Hosea's room. Inexplicably, I found myself going to the spot on the floor covered by a throw rug. I had no idea why I'd done this. I pulled the rug away to find that the floorboards had been pulled up in an area and put back into place, but not all that well. I reached out to pull them up again, but a voice--a voice I'd heard before without, at that point, realizing where I had--cried out, "No, don't look. Beware! Leave! Escape!"

In panic, I lowered the rug and moved quickly around the room, picking up everything I thought Hosea would really want back. I kept telling myself that Hosea was OK, that he was just fine, and that I'd find him eventually. This time I found his cellphone in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. There was no way Hosea would leave this beyond in a planned move. Now I knew why communications with him had gone dead--at least by way of use of this phone. Within twenty minutes I was out of the front door, into my old Camaro, with Hosea's shit in the back, and on the road to Flagstaff. I had tried the door to the hidden room with the thumping wall behind the kitchen before I left, afraid what I might find there, but it was locked tight.

I was a good fifty miles down the road before it hit me that the floorboards related to my nightmare the night before and that the voice warning me to leave was Hosea's.

* * * *

I had this App on my phone that triangulated on gay-friendly and also Hispanic- and Native American-friendly motels and bars in the Southwest states. I stopped in a strip mall parking lot north of Phoenix off of I-17 and used it to find a gay bar in Flagstaff. The best I could come up with was the Sportsman's Bar and Grill. Then, using Hosea's cellphone, I went to the gay employment site on the Internet and saw that the listing he'd hooked into, Hayden Nichelson, still had an active request for a houseboy. Looking further through Hosea's phone I saw that an appointment had been made between them. So, Hosea had gone at least that far in plans beyond Carl's house. I put in a bid for an interview, knowing that the "companion" aspect of the listing meant there would be an audition. I wanted a face to face, though, to find out if Hosea had made it that far. I suggested a happy hour time at the Sportsman's Bar and Grill if he'd give me an interview.

I went for lunch at a Chinese restaurant in the strip mall. By the time I'd finished, Nichelson had responded, agreeing to the time and place for an interview.

So, the job was still open--or open again. It was the only shot I knew of to find Hosea at this point, though, so I'd take it.

I didn't want to go all the way into Flagstaff for the night and I wasn't coming up with any reasonably priced motels there, so I booked in Sedona at a two-star motel claiming to be gay friendly. The Web site said the Monte Verde Motel was in an Hispanic and Native American section of West Sedona, a couple of blocks off Route 89A. I booked there by phone, drove there, checked in, and sacked out until dark. I went to the Tortas de Fuego Mexican Restaurant for dinner, feeling at home, and then sought out the nearby gay bar I'd found listed, Tico's.

I was sent into immediate confusion when I entered the bar. There were a lot of great-looking guys, Hispanics and Native Americans, there--as well as just as many not great-looking guys--but I thought I'd walked into a parody. They were all in "American Indian" costume and were wearing masks.

Seeing my quizzical look, the guy at the door, a bulky guy sitting on a stool just inside the entrance--probably the bouncer--said, "It's Halloween tomorrow, Sweetcheeks. We're having a costume party tonight. You gotta have a mask. No cover, but $10 if you don't come in with a mask and we have to loan you one."

I paid for the mask and moved into the room. I went to the bar and, as I was putting the mask on, I found I was standing beside a bronzed god. He looked like he was Native American for real--tall, sculpted, bare-chested, with low-rise buckskin trousers with a flap in front showing curly pubic hair at the waistline. He was gorgeous, maybe in his mid-twenties, like me, with glossy, straight, black hair cascading down to his shoulders and a sleeve tattoo up his right arm and over his shoulder and right pec that was a swirl pattern in subtle red, pastel green, and a rose color. He had on a chunky turquoise and silver necklace with a round pendant nestled between his pecs.

He turned to me and smiled. "Haven't seen you here before. Fresh meat?"

"I'm from Vegas. Just passing through," I said. "Been to Phoenix. Going to Flagstaff." I wondered if the "fresh meat" reference meant he was a top and would be rough. That didn't put my interest off.

"Not to Flagstaff tonight, I hope," he said. He had a hand on my forearm. If this was the start of a hookup, I was game. He was a Native American god. There was a good chance he was a manhandler. That's what I was in the mood for.

"No, I'm here for the night," I said. "At the Monte Verde."

"Cool," he said. "I know it. Good folks there. They don't hassle you." His hand went down, possessively in terms of gay seduction, to my hip. "But you're not in costume. You have to go with the flow, man. The jeans and boots are fine, but that shirt's gotta go." He unbuttoned my shirt. I let him, not pointing out that I just came into town and didn't know about the costume party. He pulled the shirt off my back and tucked the hem into the waistband of my jeans at the side. I let him. "Great body," he said, running the back of his hand up my torso. I let him do this too, and as he did so, I touched his chest with the tips of the fingers of my right hand.

"Thanks. That's one great sleeve tatt you have," I added.

"I like it. Are we going to get along real good?" He was palming one of my pecs.

"It certainly seems so," I answered, not moving away from his hand.

"What is it that you do in Vegas? Card dealer at a casino, or, with that body, a dancer in a revue?"

"Got it in two," I said and laughed. "I'm a dancer and stripper." There were times when acknowledging that cut through a lot of information delivery. This was one of those times.

"I knew it. I could tell, just from your body and the way you move." He ran his hand back down my torso, ending up at my waistband. He stopped there and gave me a pointed look. I didn't react negatively, so he unbuttoned my fly, letting the jeans flare just a bit, and ran fingers over the curly black hair where my pubes started. I let him do this as well.

"Do you top or bottom?" he asked, getting right to it.

"Either, but mostly bottom."

"Sweet."

I had come here for more than a drink--I wanted a straightforward hookup with a young guy who would get Carl out of my system. This could be that guy.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked. The Native-American-themed Halloween costume party was swirling around us in the room, but we were zeroed in on each other, in a bubble all our own.

"Yes, sure," I said, knowing that that was a major step in a hookup and further established that he was dominant. Everything he was saying and doing toward me screamed that he was a dominator. "And what is it that you do...?" I left space for him to fill in his name as well as his occupation. He had the musculature of a construction worker.

"I'm Choovio," he said. "That's Hopi. Guys call me Cho, though." He pronounced it as "Show," but he spelled it out for me. "I live and work at the Hopi reservation northeast of here. I build things. I'm Hopi."

Ah, truly a Native American. Just as I had surmised. It wasn't just a costume for him tonight. I told him my name, so now we were pals. We took a few minutes out to down most of our drink. "So, it isn't just a costume for you. This is how you are."

"Yes, this is me, all but the mask. Disappointed?"

"Not in the least. I think you're magnificent."

"This is a gay bar," he said, adding, "being from out of town maybe you didn't know that."

"Yes, I knew that. I checked out the kind of place I wanted to go to beforehand."

"Perfect," he said. His hand snaked around my hips and he laid it on the small of my back, his index finger moving down into my crack. He didn't reach as far as the hole, but we both knew what he was signaling--and I let him do it. I lifted my buttocks in case he wanted to get closer to the hole. He did want to and he did.

"What else do you do, Cho? Do you have any other interests than working and living at the Hopi reservation?"

"Yes. I fuck dancers." He put his lips to my ear and said, "I want to fuck you. Am I rushing you too much?"

"Good to know you want me. And no, I'm easy for a hunk like you. You want to fuck me right here on the bar? Lay me out on top of the bar and let all these guys watch you fuck me?"

"Would that give you a thrill? Is that what strippers like you let men do in the clubs in Vegas?"

"Yes. I've worked some pretty wild bars there."

"Is that what you let men do--lay you on the bar top, with other guys gathered round?"

"When they look like you."

"Perfect." He laughed. "You wanna show me the inside of the room you've got at the Monte Verde Motel?"

"So, not here on the bar top?" I asked and gave a little laugh.

"I want you all to myself." Now his finger did descend to my hole and I gave a little gasp as he pressed inside. He pulled me close and worked my hole with the finger--and I let him.

"So, you always this fast?" he asked.

"It's what I came in here for."

"You came in especially for me?"

"Yes."

* * * *

At the motel he fucked me in a modified doggy, with me kneeling on the bottom edge of the bed, arms flung back grasping his biceps, as he cupped my chin with one hand, arching my head back into his chest, palmed my belly with the other, and fucked me hard and long from behind. His shaft and his cocking were as magnificent as the rest of him.

Then, with me on my belly on the bed and my arms spread about my head, my wrists strapped to the top rung of the headboard, he straddled my hips and rode me like a rodeo cowboy. Once again, one of his hands cupped my chin, pulling my head back into his chest, and the other one palmed my chest, a thumb and forefinger playing with my nipples as I rocked under him and he mastered me in long, deep thrusts.

In the middle of the night, stretched out along my body, he punched me lightly in the side. "Hey, wake up. You must be having a nightmare."

I was. It was the same as the night before, in Hosea's room in Carl's house in Phoenix. But it was clearer and more ominous this time. I was being ridden hard, stretched out on Hosea's bed, my wrists bound to the headboard, crying out in a pain-passion that I somehow knew it was causing although I didn't actually experience any sensation in the dream state. The heavy dude riding me also had a hand whip and was lashing me. The bed was thump, thump, thumping against the wall to the cadence of the thrusts. During this, my eyes went to the floor beside the bed, to the area of the floor where the boards had been taken up and not put back well. Only one wrist was bound now, and although my ass was still being ridden and my back was still being lashed, I was reaching out for the uneven boards on the floor. A voice--Hosea's voice--was crying out, "No, don't look. Beware! Leave! Escape!" My fingers touched the first of the displaced boards.

That was the point at which Cho woke me up. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, handsome," I said. "I just don't want to sleep the night away when I have someone like you in bed with me." I nudged him onto his back and moved over on top of him, kissing and licking down his body, worshipping his magnificent body, reaching his groin. He groaned as I took him into my throat and gave him deep head.

* * * *

Hayden Nichelson was not at all what I expected. I found him sitting in a back booth, in the shadows, of the Sportsman's Bar and Grill in Flagstaff. He was, first, older than I thought he'd be, easily in his sixties from the ruggedness of his facile features and the whiteness of his wavy white-gray head hair of his beard and mustache. His eyes were a piercing black. Everything about him was dark except for that mesmerizing gleam in his eyes. He was wearing an expensive-looking, well-tailored black suit, with a black silky shirt, open almost down to his navel, showing a strong, muscular chest matted with gray curly hair and with a large silver medallion on a silver chain, the medallion nestling in the hair between his bulging, but firm pecs. When he reached out to take my hand, more holding and caressing it than shaking it, I saw that his nails were long and painted black.

His eyes drilled into me and there was a sneery sort of smile on his face.

"Miguel Carillo, did you say?" he asked. The name seemed to mean something to him. I wanted to ask if he had met my cousin, Hosea Carillo, but I didn't ask at that point--and later, it seemed never right to bring it up.

"Yes, sir. From Las Vegas. Is the position you advertised still open?"

"The position I've listed on the gay employment site?"

"Yes."

"You understand what that means--and what advertising for a companion on that site means? Here, sit down. No, not across from me. Beside me." He slid out of the booth, motioned me to slide in, and then followed me, putting me against the wall. He immediately put his left arm around me. I wasn't going to be going anywhere anytime soon.

"Yes, I understand."

"In your messages you say you've worked as a male stripper in gay clubs in Las Vegas."

"Yes."

"You take cock? You're a submissive?"

"Yes." I'd noted that in the message exchange with him already. It sounded bald said out loud, though.

"You won't have trouble handling this?" he asked. He took my hand under the surface of the table and moved it to his crotch. He was unzipped and freed. His cock, half hard, was huge.

"No, sir, but what about the other needs you have listed."

"You know how to cook and take care of a house?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you wrote that you are an aspiring writer. So, you are educated enough to proofread my work as a novelist?"

"Yes, I think so. That's what attracted me to your listing. What do you write?"

"I write about the occult."

Why was I not surprised?

"But it's the writing aspect of the job you are interested in? You will have trouble with the sex? I am a demanding man, with constant needs."

"No, the sex is fine. I enjoy sex. I enjoy older, more experienced men too."

"Shall we go to my home then? You can follow me, up into the Fort Valley to the northwest, into the red rocks. You understand there will be a testing. You have come at a bad time for me--tonight is All Hallow's Eve, and I have duties to perform. You will have to stay until at least tomorrow, even if I find you wanting."

"I understand," I answered. When we got out onto the street I saw that he was driving an old, but in pristine condition, Cadillac hearse. It, of course, was black.

* * * *

He was surprisingly athletic for his apparent age and inventive. It was almost mystical how young he is in the fuck given his apparent age. He was hung and virile and vigorous. He could fuck for hours, coming again and again and quickly reloading. He did fuck me for hours. He was something from out of this world. He drilled me and drilled me and drilled me. He had barely come--minutes after I did--when he was running his hands up my inner thighs, parting my legs, and mounting me, thrusting inside me with a hard, long erection, and fucking me again.

The room was dramatically black--the entire interior of the log house hanging on the side of a twin hills topped above it in two red-rock chimney buttes was dramatic, reflecting the occult, and draped internally in black. The bedroom he fucked me in had black walls, ceiling, and carpeting. The bed was draped in black silk. The windows were French doors, overlooking a dramatic scene of undulating desert hills topped with red rock buttes and semiarid foliage.

He dominated me and rode me hard--and repeatedly.

The surrounding blackness contrasted with and emphasized what else was in the bed-centered room. There were floor-to-ceiling mirrors on all four walls, reflecting the bed and a mirror the size of the bed on the ceiling. And spotlighting focused on the bed. There were cameras at the ceiling at the four corners of the room. This all emphasized what the bodies on the bed were doing and it was all captured by the mirrors for immediate viewing enjoyment and cameras for viewing pleasure later. This was a performance room, and I had become a performer--it was more that I became the stage prop of a performer. He was still drilling me long after I lay there, completely open and semiconscious--and defenseless. He not only fucked the stuffing out of me endlessly and exotically, he also let me watch it from all angles, as did his cameras.

He wiped me out.

He wore nothing but a billowing black silk cape and black sandals laced up to his knees and the silver medallion around his neck. His lightly pelted body was hard, Zeus-like for a man his age. I was naked, and he fucked me in every position imaginable, again and again, through the afternoon and into the twilight.

He fucked me against the wall, with me grasping straps hanging down from the top edge of the ceiling and with my knees hooked on his hips. He fucked me in a reverse bulldog, with me on my knees at the foot of the bed, my torso reclining to the carpet, supporting my weight on my elbows, and Nichelson crouched over my ass, facing the headboard, and fucking down into my hole. He lay on his back on the bed, with me suspended over him, crab like, legs bent, feet flat on the surface outside his legs, and my hands pressed into the mattress beside his biceps. I watched it in the overhead mirror, melting to the sensuality of it both in seeing it and feeling it, as he raised and lowered me on his cock. And he fucked me with me stretched out on my belly on the bed, and him on top of me, in pushup stance, an arm embracing my chest, and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting inside me.

He fucked me to exhaustion, leaving me lying, face down on the bed, one arm dangling off to the side, panting and blowing bubbles. I was totally fucked but amazed at what he could-and did do--and did again and again and again.