tagGay MaleJourney to Mirage Ch. 10

Journey to Mirage Ch. 10


Rick, stretched out on the double bed nearest the door, heard voices outside—it was the familiar sound of Groton's voice that had awakened him—far earlier than anyone should be stirring. Rick looked over at the clock on the bedside table, saw that it was still 5:30 a.m., and he groaned and turned on his back, legs spread. His channel was sore. The bodyguard had been thorough and long lasting. The thought that had come into his mind was that Billy Dan would have liked that. But he snored through the whole taking, and the man had been fully satisfied with what he'd gotten from Rick and had returned to his vigil outside the door, after visiting the can, without molesting Billy Dan as well.

Rick came fully awake when he heard Groton laugh and ask, "Good ass, wasn't he? Sweet enough for you?"

Rick didn't hear the reply but he was already building an irk. He had wondered if Groton would find out that the dog put on guard duty last night had been in the hen house himself. Now he knew. This probably had been the agreed-upon payment for the bodyguard's services. He certainly knew that Groton didn't use money as payment any time he could get away with not doing so. And Rick wondered if part of the agreement was that the bodyguard would leave Billy Dan alone. Certainly Groton was showing far more jealousy now about what was done with Billy Dan away from the cameras than he was about Rick.

Not much question that Rick was earning his way on the trip in more ways than one, and he knew that this wouldn't be the last travel expense he was supposed to carry. What Phil had said about Groton going ahead and selling still shots on the Internet as they traveled across the country had sunk in. Groton traveled with a laptop and when Rick saw him downloading photos onto a Web site one afternoon, he called him out on what he was doing.

"Publicity," Groton had said. "Most of these are stills from the movie shots. I want the men clamoring to see Journey to Mirage even before we reach the festival. It will help in the voting."

But, as Phil had said, Rick knew that it was helping in getting them across country to Mirage as well. That part of this operation was no mirage to Rick. Phil had opened his eyes to that—and then he had opened Rick to so much more. But then that door had been slammed shut.

Groton bounced into the room, turning on lights and literally pulling a groggy Billy Dan out of the bed.

"Up and dressed, boys. I'm taking you to Mardi Gras in New Orleans, and it's a good chug away from here. We need to be on the road."

Rick and Billy Dan stumbled out of the room into the chill mountain air just before six, both complaining about needing breakfast, both being ignored.

"We'll stop on the road—drive you through a drive through," Groton announced cheerily. "Both of you in the Saab."

It would be just three of them in the Saab now, Groton's film crew having been decimated. But Rick looked over and saw that there was someone else standing by the Dodge truck now, someone to ride with Roger. No introductions were made until they stopped for lunch, but then Rick learned his name was Howard. He was an obvious computer geek—sallow skin and thin, undeveloped body, presumably from sitting in front of a computer his every waking moment, and bottle-thick eye glasses, no doubt brought about by the same consuming interest in computer programming. Other than that, he didn't look too bad. But it looked like even Billy Dan could easily break him in two with his hands, and even Billy Dan showed him no interest, treating him like he wasn't in the troupe at all. So, Rick thought, maybe Groton had signed on the ideal film assistant for his needs and who would assuage his worries at last.

* * * *

It was nearly 7:00 p.m. before they managed to get to the small hotel Groton had somehow been able to finagle rooms in during Mardi Gras in New Orleans. The last hour of travel was spent in trying to drive through the crowds of costumed revelers in the streets of the old city. The hotel was in the French Quarter, at its northern edge, but just barely.

The hotel wasn't right on the street, but down an alley barely wide enough to accommodate the Dodge truck. Then, at the hotel's entry passageway, the vehicles had to negotiate a sharp right turn through another passageway into a small parking lot, where at one time there must have been a building.

It was growing dark and torches were already lit. Revelers were out on Barracks Street en masse, most of them headed for the more-central Bourbon Street area. As Rick and the others approached the entry door, trudging because they were so tired from the long drive and the frustration of the last hour just trying to get into the city, eerie silhouettes of garishly costumed celebrants were cast over the ochre-colored cut stone of the hotel front. A bunch of clowns—obviously all part of the same group—were milling around in the forecourt of the hotel. They thumped on the trunks and hoods of the cars hovering somewhere between the comical, the grotesque, and the marginally scary, while Groton's band disembarked.

The first order of business once Groton's men had entered the hotel was something to eat, and they found the hotel's dining room filled with half-costumed patrons, hurriedly wolfing down their food so that they themselves could pour out into the streets for a party that would go until dawn. Just dropping into the scene like this provided a specter for Groton's little band of a wild masque of excess from an earlier century.

Groton turned quite jovial and he ordered extra wine for the table.

"Eat and drink up, lads, and then a snooze. A short one, though, as we have work to do."

The owner of the hotel appeared at Groton's side at the end of the meal. He was a double-chinned man of large size and dressed expansively and flamboyantly in a black silk suit with a frilled white shirt and sporting a handle-bar mustache that had been waxed and curled at the end a la Salvador Dali. The man himself was so theatrical that Rick rather thought the attire was his everyday choice and not donned especially for Mardi Gras. All smiles and puffed up, he greeted Groton as an old friend, and, scanning the table, asked with a broad smile, "Who is it to be?"

That's when Rick found out how they had managed to get the rooms for Mardi Gras on such short notice.

Groton pointed to Rick, and the hotel owner nearly salivated in his show of appreciation. He had two room keys in his hand, which he gave to Groton. Groton, in turn, gave one to Roger. And that was how it was to be. Groton and Billy Dan were sleeping in one room and Roger and the new film assistant, Howard, were in the other. Rick was in the hotel owner's room, and Groton was motioning him to rise and go with the man now.

"I will require him for a couple of hours after midnight, Alphonse. But until then he's yours. Use him as you will."

Being "used" by the rotund Spaniard turned out not to be as taxing as Rick had been afraid it would be. The Spaniard wanted him to strip and stand before him for several moments, as he savored the moment. Then he walked around and around Rick, touching him and playing his tongue over Rick's body.

After that he wanted to play with and suck Rick's cock and balls more intimately and had Rick lay on his back on the bed, while slowly, ever so slowly—slowed even more by Rick's exhaustion from the road trip—the hotelier used his fingers and tongue and teeth to bring Rick to the edge of ejaculation and then away from the edge again and back—until Rick could hold it no more and flowed in a long sigh.

The Spaniard wanted to fuck then. But he wanted Rick to do all of the work. He lay on the bed on his back and Rick had to mount and ride his cock.

Mercifully, it was just the once, though, and it was all over quickly. By the time the Spaniard had come, he appeared to be as tired a Rick was, and he drifted quickly off into a loud-snoring sleep. Rick rolled off him and to the side, and he was fast asleep as well.

* * * *

Shortly after midnight, Groton entered the room, roused Rick, and pulled him away. He was dressed as a seventeenth-century buccaneer, and he had a costume for Rick too—tight silk pants, with black boots, and a pull-over blousy white cotton shirt that opened almost to his navel, the wide opening showing much of his chest and being laced together with white string.

Billy Dan wasn't dressed. He was lolling in Groton's bed, legs spread wide, his eyes with the dazed look he had after he'd been worked over by Groton's oversized cock, which, no doubt he just had been.

Roger and Howard were standing out in the hall, dressed all in black, with black face masks, and hoisting video cameras. Roger had two, one in each hand.

"What's Billy Dan—?" Rick started to say.

"He's not going with us tonight," Groton said. "This is your filming."

Rick tried to remember what scene this might be—and when he did, the image of the group of intimidating clowns that had accosted them in the hotel's forecourt, he shuddered and considered trying to beg off.

"Come. I've found just the club we need," Groton said and, before Rick could try to think of a reason they couldn't be doing this, they were walking through the entranceway and into the tunneled drive and out to the noise and hullabaloo on Barracks Street.

Groton didn't lead the group farther into the French Quarter, though. He led them northeast, along Dauphine Street, toward the docks area. Entering Burgundy Street, which was almost deserted, the main activity of the evening being in the nearby French Quarter, the raucous noise of which followed them into the dark streets around the docks, Groton stopped at a set of iron steps rising up to an old brick building, which looked to be totally deserted. There was a yellow light showing through the lacy iron stair treads up to the main entrance door, though, and Groton dipped around the stairs to the left to other stairs that led down into a well under the landing. He knocked on the wooden door that was one story directly under the main entrance, which opened, revealing an eerie, smoky half-lit room beyond.

It was some sort of bar. All of the patrons were in costumes—all sorts of ghoulish dress, predominated by black capes and sinister vampire-looking characters. All of them appeared to be men, and all of them locked their eyes on Rick as the group entered. Roger and Howard instinctively shrank into the shadows around the wall, where their black dressing made them virtually invisible. Groton held Rick at arm's length as he moved into the room, showing the young man off. In homage to this offering, a cleared circle opened around the two as they walked and all eyes followed their progress.

A table in the middle of the room cleared for them, the patrons obviously all preferring the shadows around the periphery themselves. Groton parked Rick here and went to the bar, where he spoke briefly with a heavyset man sitting at the far end. Money was exchanged and Groton came back and sat down beside Rick.

All eyes were still on them, while the heavyset man drew several men around him, who then fanned out in the crowd.

A series of men in black capes—all striving for the vampire effect—were brought to the table for Groton's inspection. At length, he picked three, all tall and well-built and of sinister dark-featured countenances. He spoke briefly with them, holding his wallet in his hand until he was satisfied he had the best deal closed—and after he'd made them all bare their chests and lower their trousers. He picked the one with the best mix of build and cock size.

"Where?" Rick heard him say.

With a broad smile, the man answered as he readjusted his clothing, "St. Louis Number Two should do fine. It's farther away than Number One, but not as close to the Quarter. It should be deserted tonight. And we can reach it on foot."

When he smiled, Rick shuddered. The man's canine teeth were protruding and had been sharpened. There was no clue whether they were fakes or implants.

It proved to be a rather long walk, southwest on Rampart to St. Louis and then northwest four blocks to the edge of the Route 10 superhighway.

Groton instructed the vampire—for that was what the man fancied himself to be, whether he was or not—and Howard to stop just inside the gates to the cemetery while he and Roger led Rick down the concrete paths between the raised tombs until he'd found the tomb he wanted. He told Rick to climb up on the tomb. Rick started to say something to Groton, but Groton spat back, "It's your fantasy. And we can't be long. Someone could come back at almost any time. Now, hop up on the top of the tomb and take a willing sacrifice's pose."

Groton had chosen the raised tomb he did because there were iron rings embedded in the concrete at each edge of the tabletop tomb. Rick laid back on the cold, hard surface on his back, as Groton on one side and Roger at the other took two-foot-long chains out of a bag Roger had carried into the cemetery and attached them to Rick's wrists and then to each ring on the sides, pulling his arms above his head. The chains they used on his ankles and the rings at the bottom of the tomb cover were four feet long, giving length for Rick's legs to be raised and spread—but not for him to be able to escape his bonds.

Groton and Roger, video cameras in hand backed off from each side of the tomb, and Rick heard Groton's soft whistle.

The whistle was the cue for the vampire, who slowly and deliberately—a bit too theatrically, Rick thought—began to stride into the cemetery and toward the tomb atop which Rick was now spread-eagled and chained. Other than the black cape billowing around his body and his black boots, the vampire was completely nude.

Groton had picked well. The vampire's body was well worked and muscle hard. There was little fat on him, but he wasn't lean either. He was of dusky complexion, and the distinctive blackness and prodigious size of his cock and balls, swinging low and free between his thighs as he walked, attested to mixed heritage.

As the cameras whirred, he strode purposely to the base of the tomb and lithely bounded on top of it. It almost appeared that he had floated up to where he was standing over Rick, who was writhing within the limits of his chains on the tomb top and looking appropriately frightened. Howard appeared in the shadows below the tomb, providing a third-angle shot.

Groton, muttering his delight at the mystery and dexterity by which the vampire mounted the tomb—which only would need a bit of change in film speed at that point to give the illusion of floating—and blessing the mood being enhanced by the heavy mist beginning to filter into the cemetery, moved around to the head of the tomb to get the full frontal shot of the naked, barring the billowing black cape, vampire, showing his toothy smile and looking down at his tomb-top captive, his wickedly upcurved erection showing his approval of the night's sacrificial lamb.

Then exhibiting his long, sharp fingernails, the would-be vampire proceeded to slice Rick's clothing off his body, all the time rubbing the underside of his curved cock on Rick's belly.

Rick turned his head from the sight of his clothing being slowly slashed away and arched his back, fighting ineffectively against his bonds, perhaps partially as an act, but almost wholly at the horror of what the fantasy of several nights previously had produced.

Dramatically, the vampire came down on his knees on either side of Rick's chest and, grabbing Rick's head roughly in his hands, assaulted his mouth with a hard cock. Rick gagged and groaned and thrashed about as the vampire thrust into his throat, pulling Rick's head back and forth on the cock.

At length, fully engorged, the vampire moved his knees back down to between Rick's spread knees, and he had the palms of his hands under Rick's buttocks, pulling the cheeks apart and squeezing the orbs. A camera panned in and a forefinger of each hand invaded Rick's channel as Rick, panting, breathing hard, and crying out at the invasion of his channel by sharp fingernails, arched his back and moaned hard.

The vampire displayed his cock entering Rick's channel, but then he lowered himself full length along Rick's body, on top of him, and the vampire's black cloak hid what was happening underneath it for some minutes, although the action was obvious. The cloak was rising and falling at the level of the vampire's hips, and Rick was crying out and grunting and groaning with each fall of the cloak, making quite clear that the vampire was stroking his channel deep.

A burst of wind flowed through the cemetery and the vampire deftly unclasped the cloak at his neck and let it flutter aside, dramatically, onto the ground beside the tomb, bringing the voyeur cameras directly into the action. The camera shots showed Rick still writhing under the vampire, fighting him, but fully embraced and skewered and with no hope of success of escape.

The vampire lowered his mouth onto Rick's chest, and Rick cried out as the vampire's sharp teeth bit into his skin. There were long, red welt marks across Rick's chest and belly and thighs and buttocks from the vampire's sharp fingernails.

The vampire returned his mouth to the hollow of Rick's neck on one side, and Rick screamed a scream caught eerily on the breeze and echoing off the surrounding tomb walls, as the vampire's sharp canines proved to be real and purposeful.

And thirsty.

The cameras panned in closely to capture the panicked, pained look on Rick's face as the teeth punctured the surface of Rick's throat, and a thin line of blood started flowing down from his neck.

Rick fought harder than before, which forced the vampire's cock deeper inside him. The vampire's mouth was making snuffling, slurping sounds at Rick's neck, and, as if the ingestion of whatever blood it could get there increased the vampire's strength, it began to pump Rick's channel harder and quicker.

At the same time, Rick was becoming weaker and weaker. His struggling slowed down, his legs bowed to the side, giving the vampire deeper purchase inside him. He stopped rattling the chains and his head lolled to one side. His breathing was shallower and he began to hear a buzzing in his ears and his eyes were glazing over. Weaker and weaker.

And then Groton was there, warning that it sounded like someone had entered the cemetery. He and Roger were scrabbling at the chain connections, and the vampire disappeared in a hiss and a swirl of mist.

When Rick awoke, totally exhausted, disoriented, and hurting from several slashings on his body, it took him several minutes to realize—signaled first by the snoring—that he had been bathed and was back in the hotelier's bedroom in the Barracks Street hotel.

Near dawn, the hotelier woke, rested, and wanting another fuck for the price of his currently precious rooms. He tried to rouse Rick, but with little luck. So he got out of bed and hauled Rick bodily across the room to where there was a settee and two upholstered chairs. He draped Rick, belly down, over the back of one of the chairs and then fucked his limp body from behind.

Rick didn't even know what was happening.

When he next woke, he was lying across the backseat of the Saab. Groton was driving and Billy Dan was in the passenger seat.

He groaned and tried to sit up, but was unable to do so.

"So, awake at last, are you?" Groton called out cheerily from the front seat as he looked into the back through the rearview mirror. "Maybe you'd best not try to sit up for a while. You were magnificent last night. We got great film. That will be a scene everyone remembers."

"What? Where?" Rick murmured weakly.

"Next stop Dallas," Groton said. "And don't worry. You'll be able to rest and recuperate there. I couldn't find anything but regular hotel rooms, so you'll have no one to bother you all day but maybe a maid who can't read a 'don't disturb' sign."

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