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Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 01

By: sr71plt



Lamont Breaux had expended years of study and much of his family's money in search of the wild dream based on murky myth that either would start to pay out tonight or he'd be stuck with this white elephant of an old, moldering plantation house on the Mississippi that would be worth nothing to anyone. He had kept his research and reasons for buying Fontnet's Retreat entirely to himself; if he'd revealed what he was doing to anyone, they would have branded him as completely crazy. But he had researched the two local myths well. Legend had it that the Fontnets had been fabulously wealthy, the richest planters in the south. But suddenly their money was all gone and legends arose that their wealth had all been converted to gold and was hidden somewhere here on the property.

Breaux only needed to look around what had once been the ballroom at Fontnet's Retreat to see evidence that others beside him had pursued this legend. The interior of the house was a wreck, victim to more than a century of nocturnal treasure hunters. Holes in the walls, holes in the floor, even holes in the ceiling, marking where the furtive searches had been conducted in the dark of night. And the outbuildings and even the gardens and lawns themselves had been worked over in what Breaux assumed had been totally unsuccessful searches. He knew his research would have turned up some hint of the fabulous treasure having been found if it, in fact, had been.

The other legend revolved around the strange demise, one by one, of not only the Fontnet family, but of all of their servants and slaves as well—at least of all of those who stayed on the property. Those in the neighboring plantations came to blame a son of the family, Emile LaCour, for this strange wasting away of everyone around him by some unknown blood anemia disease. The malady seemed to have taken everyone in Emile's household, including the wife who had married him in Paris and brought him home to the Mississippi. Despite the withering away around him Emile himself remained robust—and if the chronicles were to be believed—was the sexual scourge of the neighboring area as well. No one talked, much less wrote, of such things in the era in which he lived, but the hints were that Emile was so monstrously endowed and was of such perverted sexual proclivities that he had nearly killed every young man in the lower reaches of the Mississippi plain he had taken a fancy too in the attentions he had given them.

Not long after Emile was the last of the Fontnet family, the region rose against him, declaring him to be the son of Satan, the murderer of his own family and extended household, and the brutal debaucher of Louisiana's most promising youths. Even the newspaper reports from the time recorded that the mobs descended on Fontnet's Retreat and that a bloody battle, in which Emile had exhibited inhuman strength, had ensued. In the end, the great numbers of his attackers took their toll, and a half-dead Emile LaCour was entombed alive in the Fontnet family burial vault beyond the garden outside the ballroom's French doors.

After his extensive research, Breaux had bought Fontnet's Retreat on a wild hunch, and here he was, on the cusp of learning if his wild hunch was going to either make him a very, very rich man or hobble him with a very expensive failed throw of the dice. He should know either way very soon, he thought, as he drifted over to the French doors and gazed out at the flickering lights beyond the once magnificent, but now overgrown boxwood garden. He had selected two very comely, virile lads to test his theory out. Any time now he should know one way or the other.

* * *

"Well, surprise, surprise. This ain't no hidden treasure, Philippe; this is just a moldy old skeleton. Just what ya'd expect to find in a stone tomb."

"Treasure? Wadya mean, Jacques? I thought that Breaux fellow was expecting to find some jewelry on these old corpses in the old tomb that would add a bit of worth to the played-out farm he'd bought. I just thought he wanted to cut his losses as much as possible."

"Ain't you heard of the Fontnet legend, Philippe? That Breaux guy didn't fool me a bit. He's just lookin' for that hidden treasure that's said to be on this property somewhere and is usin' us to look for it."

"Fontnet?" said Philippe. "This ain't no Fontnet. This says Emile LaCour chiseled in this stone here."

"Yeah, well he's the guy they blamed for killing off all the Fontnets. They say they buried him alive in here." Jacques replied. "And look at that grimace on that ugly old mummified face there. Looks just like he was buried alive."

"Yep, that's one ugly puss," Philippe agreed.

"Well, you go on up to the house and let that Breaux guy know we didn't find anything but a dead guy in this stone coffin, while I'll pull the lid back on, and then we can get our pay from Breaux and head on back to Biloxi. He's sure yellowbacked to be payin' someone else to rob this grave."

Philippe took one of the flashlights and shuffled out of the tomb and headed up through the garden to the house. The hulky and hunky Jacques stretched his torso and biceps out, loosening his well-defined muscles to start pushing the stone lid back onto the upper half of the coffin.

But what was that he saw in the coffin? Something gleaming? Might there be something of worth inside there after all?

He leaned down toward the coffin and brought his flashlight around to inspect. But as he did so, a skeletal arm shot out of the coffin, and sharp fingernails at the end of bony fingers grabbed him by the throat and dug into his neck.

Jacques let out a loud scream that was quickly reduced to a gurgle as blood flowed freely from the multiple piercing wounds in his neck both down his throat and up through his sinuses, suffocating the handsome bodybuilder so fast he couldn't bring his muscle power to bear in his defense. At the same time blood was gushing down into the coffin onto the corpse's face. Another skeletal arm shot out of the coffin, slashing the young man's shirt off his massive heaving chest and digging into a vein running down to and beyond his navel.

* * *

Philippe was in the middle of responding to Lamont Breaux's suspicious question about what he and Jacques had found in the tomb they'd been directed to open and examine when both men's attention was arrested by the cut-off blood-curdling scream they heard coming from across the garden.

Precious moments were wasted in Breaux's difficulty in breaking down Philippe's reluctance to return to the tomb. But Jacques was Philippe's best friend and gym workout buddy; he couldn't just leave him if he was in some kind of trouble. And at last Philippe left Breaux to fetch the rifle he said he had upstairs and preceded his employer back to the tomb to see what Jacques's problem had been. All had been quiet for several minutes, so Philippe was speculating that Jacques had probably just bumped into something and overreacted. He knew that Jacques wasn't all that bright.

When Philippe finally dashed out of the French doors and headed across the garden, Breaux did go upstairs. But when he came back, he was carrying not a rifle, but a short silver lance. He sat down on a dusty and broken chair, with the lance across his lap. When he heard the second scream, he looked at his watch and then continued staring at it for a good twenty minutes before rising and cautiously exiting through the French doors, silver lance at the ready.

* * *

When Philippe reentered the tomb, at first he thought it was empty—that Jacques had left the stone vault. But then he saw what made his blood run cold. Objects—no, human appendages—were hanging over the edges of the tomb they had just opened. And the appendages weren't the mummified remains of some old Creole. There were two arms hanging out near the head of the coffin and two legs out near the bottom. But they were white as marble, with rivulets of blood still streaming down from multiple slashings. Philippe forced himself to shuffle over to the coffin and look inside. A deep moan escaped his lips. It was Jacques. But not the robust Jacques Philippe had left here just a few moments ago; a withered and stark-white Jacques. A Jacques whose handsome and once-virile body had been slashed and pierced, although there were just a few traces of blood to witness to the ravishment of his buddy's body.

Philippe let out a scream and turned to run out of the vault. But that's when he realized he was no longer alone in the tomb. Standing between him and the door now was a man. Not just a man—a magnificently built man appearing to be in his thirties. He was dark of complexion, with fine, strong facile features, and had a body-builder's physique, which, incongruously, was naked. In fact, he had exactly the same body build that Philippe's friend Jacques had had with Philippe last saw him alive. But, whereas Jacques had been a smooth-skinned blond, this new visitor to the tomb had dark hair—and not just hair on his head, but he had a pattern of curly dark hair on his arms and legs and on his chest, trailing down his cut torso and into his pubes. And there, between his legs, was the most gigantic cock and heavy balls that Philippe had ever seen on a human. They rivaled what he'd seen on the stallion on his father's farm. The man's cock must have been well over a foot long.

Philippe stood, mesmerized, at this apparition, his attention focused on that huge cock. And before he could snap out of his surprise and awe, the dark visitor had pounced on him and was tearing away his clothing with sharp nails extending from long, slender fingers, and his teeth had gone to and sunk in the carotid artery in Philippe's neck.

* * *

When Lamont Breaux cautiously slid through the entrance of the vault, the silver lance poised in front of him, he saw what he had more than half-way expected to see.

The lid to Emile LaCour's stone coffin had been rolled back in place, and the finely muscled body of Philippe was laid on his back on top of the stone. The young man was pale and naked. His arms were dangling over the edge of the lid on each side, and his legs were spread wide and his ankles were being held in the grip of the magnificent creature whose monster cock was stroking inside Philippe's ass hard. Trickles of blood were dribbling from a variety of piercings and slashings on Phillippe's body, and the attacking stranger was dipping down to tongue the wounds here and there to capture all of the blood.

Breaux watched in fascination as nearly a foot and a half of cock pulled out of the young man's overstretched asshole and then thrust back in, only to be withdrawn again and thrust back in. This part of the legend was true then, Breaux contemplated. Emile LaCour had been fully capable of fucking young men to death. For surely this was the legendary Emile LaCour, brought back to life, rejuvenated by the blood and vitality of winsome youths. Just as Breaux had calculated.

Philippe was lying docilely on the hard stone, far beyond putting up any sort of a struggle. His head was lolled to where he was facing Breaux. There was a little smile on his face, as if he was enjoying this ultimate fuck, but Breaux could see that the light in his eyes was dimming, that the time of the full transference of his life forces to the reborn LaCour was near at hand. LaCour's head came down to Philippe's chest, and his teeth dug into the aureole surrounding one of the young man's nipples. Philippe gave a weak lurch at the bite and sucking here, and his eyes briefly flashed and then started to dim again.

LaCour rose up off the young man and pulled his cock all the way out to where Breaux could see the huge mushroom head on the tool and then, pushing the young man's legs out wide and throwing his head back and giving a scream of triumph that echoed around the stone chamber, LaCour thrust his cock in to the hilt, and Breaux could almost hear the whoosh of the fountaining of centuries-held semen inside the center of the young man. A flow of cum gushed out of Philippe's ass around the root of LaCour's embedded cock, and the light went out of the young man's eyes and all of the tension went out of his limbs.

With a slurping sound, LaCour pulled his cock out of the dead youths' ass and turned in a pouncing stance toward Breaux. Breaux, trying to remain calm in what he had long assumed would be the most dangerous moment of the unfolding of his plans, positioned the silver lance in front of him, prepared to take the weight of any sudden attack, and fought to summon up a steady voice.

"Welcome, Emile LaCour. You are free because I have freed you. You have fed sufficiently now because I have provided you these fine young bodies to rejuvenate yours. You have been away from the world for more than a hundred years. I wish to be your friend and business partner, and you need me."

LaCour snorted and visibly relaxed, contemplating what Breaux had said, turning it over in his intelligent, but long unchallenged brain. His intelligence won.

"There is much you need to learn before you can walk the world again and hunt on your own," Breaux now said in a soothing voice. "I wish to be your support and guide. I only ask that you share the wealth of the Fontnets that I know you have hidden away. There is much more than enough gold there, I'm sure, for the both of us. Here, cover yourself with this cloak and come up to the house now with me and let us begin."

Breaux knew then that he had won. Emile LaCour was relaxed. He was flexing his muscles, fully appreciating his return to the land of the living. He gave Breaux a big, blissful smile, and Breaux relaxed the stance of the silver lance—but only symbolically—as the newly strong arms of LaCour pushed the lid of his erstwhile coffin open again long enough for him to dump the spent body of Philippe in on top of that of Jacques. And then he rolled the lid back closed, he accepted and wrapped the proffered black cloak around his newly virile body, and the two new partners, still wary of each other, moved up to the plantation house to begin their new life together.

Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 02



Emile LaCour was there for three nights in the basement strip club on Dauphine Street in the French Quarter, always sitting at the same table. Emile had picked the focus of his attention out on the first night—a lithe but well-muscled, dark Greek, displaying a mixture of danger and sassiness; much more into what he was doing than any of the other performers. His act was black leather. Studded-leather harness crisscrossing his chest, studded-leather wrist guards and cock ring, shiny black leather boots, and a leather captain's cap pulled down close over his eyes, hiding his expression until he wanted to reveal it—a beautiful cock and heavy balls. He was young and virile, vital and full of life.

The performer hadn't been the only one at the club who had drawn Emile's attention, and for much of that first evening Emile couldn't decide which of the beautiful young men to pick. On was a small, mixed-race musician with a beautiful, chocolate-with-cream complexion, an inviting smile, and a lilting, dancing movement as he played the blues numbers. He was a possibility, but for later. There were two here more intriguing then he. The third who had caught Emile's attention was another club patron, one who Emile swore was from a family he knew, a family that had lived east toward Biloxi from Fontnet's Retreat in a fine mansion Emile had always admired and coveted, Medallion, family seat of the LeMoynes. And he could swear that the young man sitting and brooding across the smoky club floor, settled into his alluring little pout and barely looking past the bottom of his beer glass to the activity around him, was the spitting image of Adrian LeMoyne. In his earlier life, Emile had made the delectable Adrian a prime target of his insatiable lust, but the LeMoynes had sent their son off for a European education and he thus had escaped Emile's terminal attentions. Emile had dreamed of him now for over two hundred years of entombment.

The brooding young man with the look simultaneously of a hulking athlete and a sensitive artist was there on the second night as well—and then the third. He seemed to be hunting something too, just as Emile was. But his seemed to be a hunt of solitude.

Emile wanted all three of them. And he could see no reason why he couldn't have them all. But one at a time. He had to choose. He decided he'd savor the winning of the Adrian lookalike, save him for later. And the beautiful little musician probably could be had at any time. What Emile needed to bring into his life now was virile youth, lustful exuberance, strength and sassiness. And the young leather-clad man strutting his stuff up on the stage fit that need very well.

By the second night, the young stripper had noticed Emile, sitting there in the dark corner of the club, obviously wealthy and urbane. Lamont Breaux had prepared him well over the past months to cope in an entirely new century—and he had caught on to the modern world even faster than Breaux imaged. Breaux had determined that it was time for Emile to hunt on his own and had let him take the car and driver into the flesh pot center of the city without Breaux being present. Breaux had already worn out his welcome in the French Quarter's gay strip and was highly recognizable now; he didn't want to be associated with Emile's hunting expeditions.

The quarry was being beguiled by Emile's eyes, boring into him in repeated visitations to the club, and by the third night the dancer was mesmerized. He only had eyes for Emile; he wiggled his butt and penis only for Emile. Emile sat there in the shadows, wrapped in his black cape, and the young leatherman performed only for the mysterious stranger. Emile had no doubts when he had a note passed backstage that the young performer would be there, waiting for the rich older, distinguished-looking man at the stage door at closing.

Emile was happy to see that he was out of the leather, into clean-cut white Polo shirt and tight low-rise jeans, as the driver ushered him into the back of the limousine.

Emile undressed the young man as the limo slowly maneuvered through the narrow streets of the quarter and emerged onto Esplanade and drove north. The dancer just sat there and let Emile pull his shirt over his head, expecting the elegant stranger to do exactly what he was doing. The dancer reached for Emile, accustomed to this sort of arrangement, but Emile pushed him away. The young man sighed and just leaned back in the cushions, ready for anything. There wasn't much he hadn't seen in this life. And he knew that he didn't make the rules.

Emile took the young stud's sensual, full lips in his own, and their eyes locked as Emile's hands slid down the dancer's torso. Emile's lips followed, lingering for a moment on the young man's neck, where Emile could feel an artery throbbing, urging Emile to hurry. Emile's hand went to the front of the young man's jeans, unbuckled his belt, unzipped his jeans, and ran under the material and down to his cock. Emile's lips came down to his nipples. The dancer sighed when his cock and balls were being caressed, but he gave a little lurch when Emile bit into his chest, just below his right nipple, drawing blood. Emile lifted his head and gave the young man an apologetic look with those mesmerizing eyes of his, taking advantage of the eye contact to draw the quarry in once more and calm him. Emile's lips went back to where he had bitten the dancer below the nipple, and he sucked the shallow wound dry, being sure to mix his saliva generously into the wound. Moments later, Emile looked back up into the young man's eyes, which were already getting drowsy and glazing over.

Emile stripped his jeans and boots off and lowered his mouth to a hardening cock. The hunter slowly pumped hunted's cock with his mouth, allowing his hands to flutter over the young dancer's body. The dancer opened his legs to give Emile access, and then he lay back in the seat quietly, his dulled senses centered on the languid blow job Emile was giving him and on the elegant stranger's hands caressing his body.

Despite his lethargy, the virile young man ejaculated in great profusion, and Emile drank his cum dry, taking possession of the precious elixir. Emile could feel his own long-dormant cock coming to life as he captured and possessed the virile youth's fountains of creamy semen.

Emile pulled the young man's legs farther apart and kissed his inner thighs. He found another throbbing artery there, where the inner thigh met the groin, and the club performer didn't seem to mind this time as Emile gently bit into him there and drank—not much, but just a little—to increase his strength and to further dissipate the young man's.

At the top of Esplanade, the limousine glided silently into the St. Louis Cemetery. Near the middle of the cemetery, the car stopped, and Emile gently carried the naked young man from the car and laid him on top of one of the raised tombs.

As Emile stood back, his cape opened, and the young man opened his eyes and beheld his master in full revelation. Emile only wore black leather pants under the cape and even these had no crotch in them. The young man stared at Emile in shock, his eyes open wide, trying to focus and come back to full awareness. His eyes went from Emile's smooth, heavily muscled barrel chest down to his thin waist and flat stomach, and the young man literally gasped when his scrutiny had traveled farther down. Emile was inhumanly huge in both length and girth, even when only half engorged. The dancer began to murmur in fear and to try to slide away from Emile along the top of the tomb. But he was too weak to fight the hunter, too weak already to escape his master. Ironically the young man himself was responsible for Emile's current size and was still to learn how big Emile could get thanks to his hospitality.

Emile moved in toward his quarry and pulled him back to him by his legs. Emile buried his lips and teeth into the club stripper's groin, between his inner thigh and his balls on the opposite side to where Emile had sucked on him before. And the master fed on that still-throbbing artery to the legs, while stroking the young man's cock again. When he was ready to cum once more, Emile transferred my mouth to his cock and drank him in to the fullest for a second time.

Emile's cock was hard enough now and his quarry was completely defenseless. Awake enough to know what was happening, but weak enough not to either care or to be able to do anything about it. The master spread his legs and opened the dancer to him. His hole was as big and as slack as a New Orleans whore can be. But still, he had never been fucked by anyone as long and deep as Emile already was. It took the hunter a few minutes to enter him six inches. Emile liked to toy with them at this point, for them to get the full effect of the thickness of him before they experienced the length. At only six inches in, Emile slowly moved back and forth inside the dancer and rotated around in him, giving the young man the full effect—before he was introduced to the fullest affect of all. And all the while the dancer was moaning and grunting quietly and writhing languidly below his tormentor. This was one of the most masterful fucks he'd every gotten from a client or admirer. For a few moments he was permitted to believe that this was the apex of the encounter—that he'd go home believing he'd been royally fucked by a master swordsman.

But all the while, the numbing venom the dancer had been injected with through Emile's saliva was shutting down his defense systems. This wasn't the apex of the fuck; this was only the prologue. The cloaked figure wrapped his arms around the young man and brought their torsos together. The stripper's arms hung limply behind him, his head lolled back. Emile fed on his left nipple for a few minutes, making quiet, satisfied slurping sounds, the blood dribbling down his chin. And Emile's cock continued to lengthen and thicken.

Emile was tired of the six-inch penetration foreplay, and he slowly started to make the torso of the young man descend down on his cock. The mysterious stranger was now plowing in what was virgin territory even for the active prostitute, where no man or dildo had gone before. The sedated dancer moaned in pleasure, all pain now a thing of the past for him. With his last vestiges of strength, he wrapped his arms around Emile's chest and his legs around Emile's buttocks, holding me in, and brought his lips to those of the dark stranger.

The hunted was all the hunter's now. He wanted Emile to take him, to finish, to possess him fully, to take his virility. The master was now fourteen inches into him, tearing him apart, with him no longer able to feel pain, only pleasure. The blood flowing from the rents in his intestines was bathing Emile's cock and balls and trickling down his thighs. Rejuvenating Emile. Augmenting his life. Fifteen inches. Sixteen inches.

Emile released his victim's mouth, and his head lolled back again. His arms and legs lost their strength, and he just lay there against Emile, but arched back, held in Emile's loving, thankful, worshipping grip. The master's teeth went to that barely throbbing artery running up the side of the young man's neck and sank in, and he drank deeply. Seventeen inches. Eighteen inches.

When Emile had drunk the young man nearly dry, he laid him back on the surface of the tomb. Emile was at nineteen inches when he gave a little life back to his prey, flooding his stomach with his precious semen. But by then the young stripper already was dead.

Emile turned and walked briskly back to the darkness of the limousine interior, the spring of new-found youth screaming in his muscles and blood. As he clicked the door shut, the first rays of the dawn found the white marble body stretched out on the gray marble tomb, its arms flung out in open welcome.

A barked order in a newly energized voice and the limousine sped back to the club, arriving in time to see the other young man Emile had been interested in leave the club, climb into a BMW sports car and drive at high speed out toward the coastal road to the east. Fifty minutes later, Emile smiled a knowing smile as he saw the BMW pull into the gates of the Medallion mansion. The line of the LeMoynes had survived. Emile had intended on ending their line in the early nineteenth century, but Adrian's European trip had prevented that. Now, two centuries later, Emile would be getting another chance. It was almost too delicious to contemplate.

Emile was in high spirit when he returned to his heavily draped upper chamber at Fontnet's Retreat. A very serious-looking Lamont Breaux awaited him, not all that patiently. The slightly pudgy middle-aged lawyer was sitting and brooding in an enshrouding Chippendale wing chair beside a fireless fireplace.

Emile breathlessly told his protector of the marvelous evening he had, although, by instinct, he carefully held back from mentioning the discovery of his LeMoyne neighbor at the club. Breaux didn't need to know everything. He smugly felt he was in complete control of his very dangerous protégé, but Emile thought otherwise.

"I was happy to make this little outing of yours possible," Breaux said with his best-honeyed voice modulation. "I told you that I would see to your needs, and, as you can see, I am doing so."

"Yes, thank you, Lamont," Emile responded, making his voice as humble as his total arrogance would allow. "You have, indeed, been quite generous with your time and support."

"It was my pleasure," Breaux said. "But speaking of pleasure, pleasure—especially your kind of pleasure—can be very expensive. We really must look to setting up your finances to support your needs and your pleasure. I haven't brought this up before, but we really do need to start thinking about something more permanent and sustaining."

"Yes, yes, of course," Emile responded smoothly, "but I still feel in a much too weakened condition to be thinking of those things . . . Perhaps after another outing or two. At the height of my climax this evening, I received a glimmer of past remembrances. I'm sure with more stimulation . . ." Emile left the proposal hanging there in the air. This hadn't, in fact, been the first time Breaux had brought up finances. He increasingly worked references into his discussions with Emile, trying to make his strange and temperamental protégé understand that he—and thus Breaux—needed funds to support the very expensive lifestyle Emile needed to have. And Emile was no fool. He knew what Breaux was after. He was after the Fontnet fortune. The buried fortune of the legend. Except that Emile knew it was no legend. And he knew there was far more available than anyone had imagined. But slowly, piecemeal. The moment Breaux sensed he had control of it all, Emile had no doubt of what Breaux would try to do to Emile.

"More stimulation," Breaux said. It would have been a question, but Breaux was smart enough to know he was being played and that, at least at this point, Emile held all of the cards. "So, would you say that another outing, perhaps a week from today, could stimulate your memory to the point where you might have some insights into the improvement of the financial situation?"

"Oh, I'm sure of it," Emile said with a broad smile. "I think perhaps a drive along the levee in the twilight next week would be a good stimulant. I presume there is still a passable river road following the levee between New Orleans and Natchez? I haven't ridden that road since the early eighteen hundreds. I think I would enjoy seeing if anything has changed."



Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 03



The cyclist was racing along the top of the Mississippi levee, anxious to get back into Natchez before the rains hit. Sweating profusely in the humidity and under the blazing late afternoon sun, intent on doing its worst before twilight set in, he stripped his jersey off and wrapped it around the handlebars of the bike. It was almost dusk now, and the storm clouds were rumbling in. He felt chilled and tried to free the jersey from the handlebars while still pumping away down the levee. The wheels of the cycle skidded on a rock, and the cyclist and bike slid down the side of the levee away from the river and to the verge of the road below. The cyclist screamed in pain, as a spoke from the bike broke free and ran up under the skin along his abs.

He felt woozy, but he managed to stand, and, when he felt strength returning and his hands stopped shaking, he pulled the spoke out. The wound began to bleed copiously. He grabbed for his jersey, pulled it free, and stanched his bleeding side with it.

A big black limousine glided up beside him and stopped. The door to the backseat opened and a pleasant, calming voice asked if he needed a ride to somewhere where he could get first aid help. The cyclist hesitated a moment, but he knew he needed the help, he felt faint, and it was beginning to rain in large droplets. So, he left his bicycle where it had landed and entered the car.

The man in the far corner of the car introduced himself as Emile. He was wrapped in a black cape, and about all the cyclist could see of him was a once-handsome, but now craggy face and his eyes. The eyes were a beautiful shade of violet and were mesmerizing. The cyclist settled back into the opposite corner and stared into those violet eyes as he drifted off into a faint.

When he halfway regained consciousness, he found that his jersey was no longer covering his wound, but was lying on the floor, no longer drenched in blood. He would have wondered more about this, but he had become halfway aware that Emile was no longer in the opposite corner of the car. The cyclist was covered up to his neck by the black cape, and someone was under the cape sucking on the wound in his side, cleaning the wound of his blood.

The cyclist was growing more woozy and drowsy rather than recovering from his faint, and his limbs felt like lead. His senses were acute, but he felt like his body couldn't respond to what was happening to him. He just lay back in the seat and watched the black silk cape rustle across his body.

The bleeding along the cyclist's abs having stopped, Emile sat up and tossed his cap off his shoulders and behind him. The cyclist gasped and tried to emit a scream, but couldn't manage to do so. He was getting drowsier and drowsier. Emile was naked to the waist and, although he was wearing black leather pants, they were open at the crotch. He had the largest cock and balls the cyclist had ever seen on a man. Not yet engorged, he must already have been almost a foot long and nearly three inches thick.

While the cyclist helplessly watched, Emile produced a hand with grotesquely long, sharp fingernails and used one to slowly slit the cyclist's latex biking shorts down from the waistband along the thigh and to the bottom hem. Then he just opened the front of the shorts like a book. He stripped the cyclist's jock off. When he'd slit the shorts, he'd also slashed the skin of the biker's thigh. He moved his mouth to this cut and licked the thigh clean. He then stroked the cyclist's cock, getting it hard, while he brought his mouth to the cyclist's lips and went into a lingering kiss. Emile's eyes held the eyes of the cyclist, and the cyclist felt that he was losing control—but that somehow he didn't care. That he was drowning in those violet eyes, but that it was a very pleasant experience. Emile bit the cyclist's lip during the kiss and sucked on it contentedly while he stroked the cyclist's cock.

Emile came out of the lip lock and kissed and nibbled down the cyclist's arm, and the cyclist felt a slight pain in the hollow inside his elbow. He looked down and saw that Emile was sucking on him there. Looking beyond that, though, he also watched Emile's cock harden and lengthen and thicken further.

Emile tongued and kissed down the cyclist's bare torso, and the cyclist felt another little stab of distant pain near his navel, but shortly Emile had arrived at his cock, just as he was about to explode under the attention of Emile's hand, and Emile went down on the cock with his mouth and literally sucked all of the cyclist's cum as fast as he spewed it out.

Emile's cock had grown to a good fourteen inches long and over three inches in girth now, but, although the cyclist was fascinated by this rapid and impossible growth, he didn't feel alarmed. He was able to think in his drowsiness that he probably should feel alarmed, but he just couldn't muster the strength to care. A light buzzing was beginning to sound in his ears. Emile was talking to him, but he couldn't hear what Emile was saying.

Emile was gently pulling him out of his corner. Emile opened and moved to the jump seat closely facing the backseat and sat down. His telephone pole of a cock was waving around in front of what had developed over the past few minutes into a massively muscled chest tapering down to a well-defined set of abs and flat belly and a thin waist. The cyclist hadn't remembered Emile as being this well cut when he first got sight of that torso. He seemed years younger now.

Emile pulled the cyclist over onto his lap, facing him. The cyclist's respectably sized cock ran up next to Emile's inhumanly huge cock and was dwarfed. Emile had wedged a big pillow behind the cyclist's back on the seat, and the cyclist was reclined back against that, able to view all the way down his torso to the docked penises and than all the way up Emile's now-young and cut torso to those mesmerizing violet eyes.

Emile wrapped both of his hands around the two cocks as well as he was able and pumped them until the cyclist was ready to cum again. Then Emile just raised the cyclist's hips up, like he was bringing a cup to his mouth, swallowed the cock, and drank in the cyclist's semen for a second time. When the cyclist's hips were lowered again, he could see that Emile's cock had grown at least another inch. He also noticed, however, that the age lines in Emile's face were disappearing and his biceps were bulging.

Emile raised the cyclist's torso to him, supporting it with one arm around the back, and he buried his teeth and mouth into the artery running up one of the cyclist's arm pits. The cyclist just dangled there, feeling only the pleasure of the sucking sensation, none of the pain. One arm sort of waved over Emile's buried face and his other arm dangled behind him. He lolled his head back and tried to focus on the intricate pattern on the ceiling of the limo, trying to figure out what the design represented, halfway wondering if there wasn't something else he was supposed to be worrying about.

Finished with that feeding, Emile let the cyclist fall back on the cushion and watch the finale with increasingly glazed-over eyes. Emile's cock was a good foot and a half long now. He raised both of his legs onto the seat under the cyclist's buttocks and pushed the cyclist's body out more than a foot and a half, so that he could lower his cock head to the cyclist's hole. Emile lifted the cyclist's right leg and wedged his foot into the door strap above the window. The left leg he just pushed out as far to the left as he could and let the foot rest on the floor. Then he just firmly took the cyclist by his hips and slowly brought the cyclist's pelvis into his, skewering the young man's ass on the huge cock.

The cyclist watched it all as long as he could. Not feeling particularly involved, slowly going to sleep. He looked down his torso to what appeared to be a baseball bat between Emile's legs slowly disappearing into him. Emile stopped at six inches in and smiled a benign smile at the cyclist and worked the young man's hips back and forth, slowly, on his monstrously thick rod. The cyclist moaned and sighed and murmured his appreciation at the pleasure of the taking. Asking for more.

Emile's smile changed and he started to give the cyclist more. The young man could feel himself being stretched and torn inside, but he was beyond pain. Twelve inches in and the cyclist could still see half as many inches again awaiting entry. At fourteen inches entrenched, something serious ruptured inside him, and Emile got all excited and started to moan loudly, as blood bathed his cock and balls and bubbled out of the cyclist's ass. Emile's face began to look years younger, and his violet eyes blazed; his chest muscles bulged out and his nipples hardened. Emile's cock grew larger and pushed harder, and the cyclist blacked out.

The next morning, the body of the cyclist, inexplicably drained of blood, was found not far from New Orleans on the side of the road running along the Mississippi levee a good sixty miles from his broken and battered bicycle.

That night, though, Emile fairly bounded out of the limousine when it arrived back at Fortnet's retreat and ran up the steps into the house. Lamont Breaux was standing by the fireplace in the formal parlor, awaiting Emile's return, prepared to be decisive this evening.

"Enjoyed your evening, I see," Breaux said, as he offered a snifter of brandy to his protégé. You look forty years younger than you did when you left here as soon as the clouds rolled in this afternoon."

"I feel forty years younger, too. Lamont," Emile said. And they he lifted his head back and gave out a joyful, exuberant shout. "I feel like I could cycle and win a marathon race. This is a wonderful feeling. I think I'm recovering from centuries of neglect quite nicely."

"And are you remembering a pattern now, a pattern of your need?" Breaux asked quietly. "I hadn't any idea how this works, but it does seem, does it not, that you need weekly feedings to maintain yourself? You seemed to have gone a bit too long this time, and it's barely been a week. Are you beginning to remember what your needs are and how they must be scheduled?"

"Yes, that's coming back to me now," Emile responded. "But I think the frequency of the need will elongate a bit when I have been recharged fully."

"And have you begun to remember other things too, Emile? This feeding need does not come cheaply, you know." Emile had left Breaux the opening he needed, the topic he had come here to discuss. This needed to be settled quickly now, or Emile might just as well return to dust. His maintenance, indeed, was going to be quite expensive. And the money was all going in the wrong direction now. Breaux hadn't freed Emile for him to become an expensive dependent. He already had a young man he rather fancied serving the role nicely.

"Come, let us walk on the terrace," Emile said, with a broad smile. He moved to the French doors and opened one.

"This really can't be put off, Emile," Breaux said with a touch of frustration. "We really must . . ."

"Come, let us walk. I am too filled with energy and vitality just to stand still in this stuffy room. It is dark enough outside now. Come, let us walk, and we can talk, certainly . . . if you wish. About hidden treasure."

Emile wandered around on the slate risers of the terrace in little energy-filled steps as Breaux stood at the door to the parlor and ticked off all of the expenses that needed to be covered. After a few minutes, however, Emile stood still on a particularly large stone, somewhat bigger than most of the others, and it was Breaux who started dancing nervously around him, trying to reason with him, trying to get him to reveal where the Fontnet treasure was buried, assuming there was such a thing. And for Emile's welfare, Breaux thought grimly, there jolly well better be a rich treasure to be had.

"I do understand," Emile broke into Breaux's monologue. "And these outings indeed are helping my memory. I do recall a considerable amount of gold bullion having been directly invested into this estate. And it just occurred to me where some of it might be." Emile had a twinkle in his eye. He was immensely enjoying playing this decidedly unsavory and greedy little man.

Breaux stopped dead in his tracks, his ears perking up to exactly what he had wanted to hear. "Where? Where is it?"

"Oh here and there, I think . . . I think . . . I can't really remember it all. It's all still a little hazy for me," Emile said, drawing his words out slowly, enjoying torturing the other man.

"Where?" Breaux almost yelled, beside himself with frustration and tension.

"I do believe I am standing on some of it," Emile said, his smile expanding. "I am sure there is enough buried right here under my feet to satisfy us for quite some time. But I do believe I remember much of more it being hidden . . . somewhere else. I just cannot . . ."

Breaux wasn't really listening to Emile closely anymore; he was already calling for the chauffeur and shovels. He had almost reentered the house, when Emile brought him up short.

"But there are a couple of things I want added to the purchase list, one rather urgently, I think," Emile said.

"What? When did you have opportunity . . .?" Breaux wasn't liking what he was hearing. Somehow Emile had acquired enough understanding of the modern world to have been doing some shopping of his own. When could he have done that? Breaux knew he needed to have a little chat with the chauffeur, who was also supposed to be Emile's keeper.

"There is a place I have always coveted," Emile continued, ignoring—but not missing—the concern showing in Breaux's face. "Just a little plantation, over on the way to Biloxi. And I understand it is been on the market for some time. I am sure it can be acquired. Medallion is its name, I believe. If you buy that for me with some of the money under my feet, I am sure it will help improve my memory on where the bulk of the bullion might be waiting for us."

"Medallion. You want me to buy another estate for you?" Breaux asked dully. "And you already know it's for sale?"

"Oh, and I do believe I would like to go sailing next week," Emile said, as the chauffeur huffed up with the needed excavation tools and Emile strolled to the French doors into the parlor. "They have a musician in the French Quarter clubs I rather fancy. Definitely a musical instrument I would like to play. I understand he works some days and nights on a charter boat on Lake Pontchartrain. I think a night cruise—just me, the musician, and our chauffeur would be lovely. Within the next week, of course. The chauffeur has all of the details. But I feel a little weary now. I think I will retire to my chamber and savor the events of the day."

And then Emile was gone. Lamont Breaux was lost in the need of the moment—digging up the treasure under the terrace slate riser and determining just how much richer he had become—and whether that offset the irritation and concern that Emile was raising. Emile was becoming independent and demanding much too soon. Especially, if he hadn't been lying, if there was an even greater treasure then this buried on the estate somewhere. 



Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 04



Alphonse waved happily to the captain on shore as he tossed the ropes over onto the dock and pushed the sailboat off into the water, out onto Lake Pontchartrain. The captain had the oddest expression on his face, as if he regretted something or felt guilty about something. And perhaps he did. Perhaps he was worried about the welfare of his boat. Alphonse never thought the captain had liked him, and this was the first time he'd allowed the young man to take out a charter on his own. A night cruise on Lake Pontchartrain. Very unusual. Also very unusual that the charter party had stayed below for the launching. The captain had just said to take the boat out nearly to the center of the lake and to bring it back in three hours.

Alphonse bet he knew what the charter was about. Probably some rich married CEO fucking some rich married bitch and each wanting to avoid getting caught at it. The people chartering this cruise probably would never come out of the cabin; he'd just be down there plowing her and rocking the boat for the full three hours. They'd probably pay Alphonse no heed at all. That was fine with Alphonse. The one he wanted to make love to was this sailboat. He worked the gay clubs of the French Quarter as a blues musician to pay for his room and food—and music was his life—but he worked on this sailboat out of a love for being out on the lake; sailing a ship with the wind was his heart and soul, and, as a matter of fact, was the inspiration for his music.

But the young man was wrong on both counts—that this was just a love tryst that didn't concern him and that no one would pay attention to him during the short cruise. Below was Emile LaCour, a recluse old-world planter, with plantations now in two states to prove it. And Emile was very much aware of Alphonse. His agent, Lamont Breaux had specified to the captain of the boat exactly who his client had wanted to take him out on this cruise, and the captain had been paid a huge amount of money to forget he'd ever let this particular charter or had ever known the quadroon Alphonse.

Or was "quadroon" the right term in this century, Emile wondered. It certainly was the right term here in New Orleans when Emile was growing up. A quadroon had been someone who was one-quarter black and three quarters white. This was almost always a heavenly mix back in the early days of the city, accounting for most of the city's mistresses, and Alphonse was no exception to that. Emile had first seen him playing with a blues band near the French Market in the Quarter one dark night and then again when Emile was shopping in the French Quarter gay clubs. The young man, with that creamy chocolate body, had been full of life and had a smile that lit up the world. And he was beautiful. He was achingly beautiful, well-muscled, but lithe, a handsome face, and a free-spirited dancing quality about him.

Emile was watching the young man now, through a window out onto the deck from a darkened cabin. Alphonse wore nothing but frayed cut-offs as he put his dancing muscles into unfurling the sail all by himself, drawing the sailboat out into the broad lake. He was poetry in motion. Emile was already looking forward to his next week, to being a free, dancing spirit himself, if only for the week.

The young man was at the wheel, staring intensely out to the open water when Emile glided out onto the deck, wrapped in a black cape that Alphonse wouldn't notice until Emile was near to him. The young man must have sensed his presence—or the presence of something, at least—because he turned when Emile was still a good eight feet behind him. Their eyes locked, Alphonse's a light blue that gave interest to his light-chocolate-colored skin; Emile's a penetrating violet that had the power to mesmerize. And Alphonse was mesmerized by those eyes—held by them, as Emile unfurled his cape and stood there, an aging, but still well-preserved man appearing to be approaching fifty. He was naked to the waist, and showed a barrel chest and a solid, not fat, torso and a belly that was nearly flat. But his most distinguishing feature was what was swinging between his legs. He was wearing tight black leather pants, but they were open at the crotch, and he was swinging a good ten inches of only slightly hardened, very thick cock and two very heavy balls.

Alphonse only had time to take in a large gulp of breath and open his mouth to scream, when Emile was upon him, enveloping him in the black cape and stopping the scream by forcing his lips between Alphonse's open lips, and pushing his tongue into the young man's mouth, swabbing the inside of his mouth with his saliva, transferring his own special venom that immobilized its victims.

As Alphonse quieted down and slumped back against the wheel, Emile produced some heavy leather straps and tied the young man's arms to the wheel, pinning him there in a standing position. Alphonse watched Emile do this with long slender fingers capped off by long, sharp nails, and the young man's eyes opened wide in surprise, and he screamed in pain, as Emile slashed him up across the chest with the nails of one hand and then back down across his abs and belly, causing rivulets of blood to start flowing. Emile seemed a little surprised and chagrined that Alphonse had cried out pain as he had, and the older man's mouth went straight to the chest wounds. He was heavily mixing his saliva in with the blood and tonguing it into the wound, allowing the toxin to race through Alphonse's veins. Alphonse's eyes went cloudy, and he started to go numb. The additional saliva was deadening the young man's sense of pain.

Emile busily sucked and tongued the blood off of Alphonse's chest, as he undid the buttons on the young man's cut-offs and tore them off his body. As he had suspected, Alphonse had quite a nice, long cock and a good set of balls. He had no pubic hair, and Emile was excited to note a slight throbbing there, promising a good vein near the surface running down Alphonse's groin.

Emile knelt in front of the young man, burying his face in his belly and sucking up the blood that the slashing had produced. With his hands, he worked Alphonse's cock and balls, hardening the cock and coaxing the balls to work up as much semen as possible. When the young man was hard, Emile took his cock in his mouth and worked him to ejaculation, rolling and squeezing the young man's balls, getting as much ejaculate to emit as possible. Alphonse watched this procedure from above, somewhat disengaged with what was happening to his body, feeling and getting pleasure from the blow job, but not quite feeling like he was a participant. He couldn't figure out why this man was sucking him off. The man didn't seem to be enjoying it all that much; it was just as if he was only milking him.

Alphonse was aware enough to observe that, as he got weaker from the loss of blood and the milking, the man was getting stronger. When the man stood back up now, Alphonse thought he looked a little younger, a little leaner, his leg muscles filling out the pants more, a little beefier in the arms and chest—and his cock seemed even longer and thicker than it had seemed before.

Alphonse was still ruminating over this in a scattered sort of way when the man lifted and spread his thighs and positioned that gigantic mushroom cap on his penis at Alphonse's hole and rubbed it up and down on the rim until Alphonse was opening to him. Emile patiently worked the cap into the hole slowly, holding for Alphonse to accommodate the extraordinary girth of him. Alphonse moaned in pleasure of full possession as Emile worked inside him a few inches and worked the canal back and forth on his huge tool. The quadroon was loving this, and memories of other delicious quadroons were surfacing in Emile's brain and he was loving this too. He would take his time with this one.

Emile called out to the cabin, and the chauffeur appeared on deck, ready to take over the helm. Then Emile unlashed Alphonse from the wheel, picked him up in a bear hug that maintained purchase of his cock at a shallow level inside the young man, and took him over the lifeboat that was swinging back and forth off the stern of the boat. Emile placed the younger man in the boat on his back, his head propped up on the bow and his arms and legs splayed out in either direction over the sides. His back and buttocks were supported by two plank seats that spanned the width of the boat. The rowboat rocked back and forth as Emile deftly entered it with his light burden. He was in a crouch between Alphonse's legs.

In this position, Emile rocked Alphonse—and the lifeboat—back and forth in a gentle rhythm on the fulcrum of his quarter-buried cock. He was enjoying this, and he could tell that Alphonse was enjoying it as well. But it was time to move on. Putting his long slender hands under Alphonse's butt cheeks, Emile raised the young man's pelvis off his cock and brought his mouth down to meet it. His mouth and tongue moved over the surface of the hairless groin until they sensed the throbbing of a vein running down from Alphonse's belly to the root of the cock. Emile flashed his sharp incisors out, but just as he was about to slice into the tender flesh of the groin, he stopped, realizing that he needed to milk Alphonse again. He took Alphonse's cock into his mouth and gave me expert suck, preparing him for the second extraction.

Alphonse watched what Emile was doing to him with only passing interest. The gentle rocking of the boat, in rhythm with Emile's sucking action, was lulling Alphonse toward sleep, and he might have dozed off it hadn't been for two things. First, Emile was doing interesting things to his cock again, tantalizing the cock and balls to reload. And, even more fascinating, Emile was slowly changing before his eyes. He continued to appear ever younger, and his body started to tighten up and get the well-cut features of a much younger man. Also, his cock was getting impossibly big. But, most fascinating of all, his skin was tanning. He was turning slightly darker.

When Alphonse's cock had hardened nicely, Emile examined the ball sac to determine how the next harvest of semen was coming along. Emile sucked the cock for a few minutes and then rose up over Alphonse and kissed him deeply on the mouth as his hand went to pumping Alphonse's dick. Emile checked the tightening of Alphonse's ball sacs, and satisfied, came up off the bottom of the rowboat and sat on the cross plank. He raised Alphonse's pelvis to his face, slid the young man's long, hard cock into his mouth, and sucked him off again, not releasing him until all of the semen in the ball sacs had been delivered. Emile turned the Alphonse until he was resting his butt cheeks in Emile's lap and the older man's long, long, heavy cock ran up the small of the back of the younger man and reached for his shoulder blades. Alphonse was sighing and moaning as if in a trance. Emile lifted his torso up along his chest, positioned his long, hard cock under and between the young man's pert butt cheeks and slowly pulled the slight musician down onto his cock and into his lap, drawing him much further down on the huge tool than before. Alphonse was snuffling and groaning and moving about languidly in a drugged stupor as if he were trying to move underwater. eight, nine inches. Alphonse began to drift off, murmuring to himself at first and then quietly singing the blues, songs his subconscious remembered from his stint with the band. Emile's fangs were buried in the side of the young man's neck again, and he was accompanying Alphonse's tunes with a quiet gurgling sound. ten, eleven inches. The artery in Alphonse's neck collapsed, and Emile lifted his head. Alphonse turned his face to that of the master, as if for solace. He made the observation to himself that man who was feeding on him and fucking him so deeply had grown younger and more handsome and more perfect of body and more deeply tanned than ever before. Emile was working him up and down now on his cock. The cap to the surface and then a slow descend of fourteen inches, and then again and again. Emile was enjoying this immensely; Alphonse was slowly drifting away.

Growing a bit bored with this, though, Emile now stood and hauled Alphonse like a sack of grain back across the deck and stretched Alphonse down on top of the cabin roof on his side. Emile lifted the young man's leg and nuzzled his lips and teeth in beside Alphonse's limp dick and spent balls and found a still-pumping artery running up from the leg into the groin. He sliced into this with his teeth and began to feed. When this source of nourishment collapsed, Emile gently lowered Alphonse's leg and moved up to on top of the cabin roof and lay down behind him. The two men now on their sides, Emile positioned his pelvis below Alphonse's buttocks, his dick head near Alphonse's hole. He lifted Alphonse's right arm in the air with his left hand and nuzzled his mouth and lips into Alphonse's arm pit. When they had found the slight throbbing there of the vein, he sank his teeth in and began to feed again. His right hand went to Alphonse's hole and, with those long, sharp fingernails, he dug in and shredded the rim and the anal walls as far up into the canal as his slender fingers could reach, working up the blood at the entrance, bringing his fingers back out and smearing it on the head of his own dick, moving his dick head back to rubbing across Alphonse's hole. Emile was moaning and groaning and buried his teeth even further into the vein at Alphonse's armpit.

Alphonse was singing quietly to himself again, watching the sails flap back and forth in the wind above them, slowly losing focus on what they were and where he was. But not caring. All feelings of his ravishment were pleasurable, although something at the back of his brain kept trying to tell him that this was a false pleasure. The toxin in the salvia was covering the pain.

Emile's cock was loving the bath of blood at Alphonse's ass and had gone to fifteen inches already. He brought the cock to the bloodied hole with his right hand and rubbed the head around inside the hole when he was able to stuff the head in there. The head was being smeared in Alphonse's life's blood, and Emile was panting and heaving. He lifted Alphonse's right leg up in full extension, and in one mighty effort, he thrust up, driving his cock in. He had lost control; he had let his own passion get the best of him. At seventeen inches in, Emile spilled his seed, letting it mingle with Alphonse's blood and accepting the gift of the life and strength and beauty from Alphonse, if only for another week. Alphonse's tune had been cut off in mid note, but, although he never could carry a tune before, Emile had taken up Alphonse's blues song where the young man had left off and was quietly singing it back to Alphonse.

Emile and his driver sailed back to the dock, and after they had disembarked from the now-empty sailboat, a heavily tanned Emile was virtually dancing across the stones on the way to the limousine, singing the blues to himself.

The limousine door opened from the inside as Emile and the chauffeur approached, and Lamont Breaux moved over to the other side of the seat to let Emile enter the vehicle.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Breaux asked dryly.

"Immensely," Emile said with a very satisfied sigh, "although I let myself be carried away a bit, I am sorry to say. I used to have much better control than that, and I hope to have it again—with much practice. But very satisfying, yes. I do love to sail. I am fond of the blues, but I think that sailing is my heart and soul."

"I have news about the man you have bought Medallion from," Breaux said quietly. He wanted to change the subject. He had seen the young man, Alphonse, himself, and he had quite fancied him too. Breaux would have like to sail that ship himself before Emile sank it.

"News? You know where he is moving to?" Emile was suddenly very interested in what Breaux had to say.

"The current owner will have vacated a week from today; he's flying out to the West Coast to live. He apparently is leaving here for good, but he couldn't get a moving company to pick up the last of his goods for another week."

"That's interesting news," Emile said and he fell back into the well-padded limousine cushions with a sigh. He hummed one of Alphonse's favorite tunes under his breath for a few minutes and then he spoke for the last time during their journey from the lake to the plantation house on the Mississippi. "I do believe I will need the car and driver six nights from now."



Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 05



Ham LeMoynes couldn't sleep, and he thought he heard a noise from downstairs. Probably only one of the many ghosts haunting this old, rotting mansion, he thought. But, still, he was fully awake now. He rose off the cot he'd set up in his room until after everything was packed out and padded down the stairs into the music room. He was barefoot, only wearing his muslin sleeper pants. In twenty-four hours the plantation house his family had lived in for generations would be occupied by someone else—it had been sold to that odious Lamont Breaux, that New Orleans lawyer who had made passes at him several times in recent years in the French Quarter's gay bars. If he thought . . . but who cared what Breaux thought? Ham would be out of here and on an airplane before Breaux took possession of the house. And he'd been trying to sell Medallion for years, before it fell down around him. He cared little who bought it.

Of course it was Ham's own decision to leave. Everyone else in the family was dead. He'd been so avid in rising in the ranks of the wrestling world and making the Olympic team that he hadn't noticed everyone around him withering and dying on this land. When he had awakened to what had happened, the dry rot that had undermined his family, he decided to sell this cursed place and move to San Francisco, where he could start a new life, and no one would know he sprang from a great southern family gone to seed. The only pieces of furniture left in the music room now were the Steinway grand piano and the bench that went with it. He had sat at this piano all afternoon, playing the classical pieces his mother had loved to hear him play. The piano was too big to go to San Francisco. A moving company would be picking it up in the morning, and it would be going straight to storage, who knows for how long. Meanwhile, for some reason he couldn't keep his hands off the keys, playing those pieces his mother had loved, trying to bring her spirit back into the room.

There was a candelabra on the piano, and Ham took up a book of matches and lit the candles. The light was sufficient for him to see the keyboard, but it had little effect on the shadows out beyond the Steinway. He saw that he'd left half a drink next to the candelabra from his afternoon reveries, and he tossed that off in two gulps and sat down at the piano. He would play; perhaps that would make him drowsy.

He started playing and, indeed, he began to feel drowsy. But it was a funny kind of drowsy. It was a drowsiness that seemed to distance him from his surroundings but that didn't put him to sleep. His arms and legs felt heavy, but he continued to play, his fingers having memorized the proper notes. He looked at the glass he'd sat back down on the piano. Had it really still had bourbon in it when he'd gone up to bed? Sighing, he went back to attacking the keys on the piano.

He didn't know what made him look up, but when he did, he saw what appeared to be the swirl of a black cape in the window alcove. A black silk cape topped with piercing eyes, which held his and bored into his brain as he watched. At first he wasn't even sure that he was seeing anything real. But, mysteriously, as he became increasingly aware that the man was real, he also increasingly became unconcerned whether he was real. The man's violet eyes held his in thrall. Ham's hands continued to play, but the rest of his body seemed to be held in some sort of suspension.

With a swirl, the man's cape opened, and Ham gasped. The man was of indeterminate age, although age obviously was beginning to catch up with him. Still, he appeared to be in pretty good shape. Ham could tell this, because the man was naked to the waist. But, most shocking of all, his black leather pants were open at the crotch, and Ham could see a tremendously long dong hanging down between two huge balls. Ham felt weak in the knees and wondered why he didn't get up and do something about this obscene intrusion. But those eyes, those mesmerizing eyes, were locked onto his.

Those eyes held his as the man slowly walked over to the piano. Eye contact was lost, however, as the man swooped around Ham and straddled him from the back on the bench.

Ham felt that gigantic cock rising up the small of his back, and he shuddered.

The man told him to continue to play, addressing him as "Adrian." Ham was confused and a little concerned—especially by the feeling that he should be very concerned but, for some reason, wasn't. Those violet eyes. Whatever was in that drink. Ham continued playing as the mysterious stranger had bid for him to do, his fingers flying on the keys but nothing else about him seeming to work, to be able to connect to any sense of danger. The man, virtually naked, was close behind him, rubbing his bare torso up and down Ham's naked back. This obviously excited the man, because his cock began to harden against Ham's back. But why was he whispering the name "Adrian" over and over again?

A great lethargy came over Ham, and his hands just dropped from the keyboard and dangled at his side. He was able to continue sitting on the bench, but he didn't feel capable of doing much else. And he didn't seem to feel worried about anything that was happening to him either.

The man wrapped his arms around Ham and slashed him diagonally from left belly to right shoulder with long, sharp fingernails. He then dug the nails into Ham's nipples. Ham felt the pain, but it seemed to be distant; it seemed to be happening to someone other than him. Then the man's hands went to Ham's cock, pulling his sleeping trousers to under the ball sac and pumping his cock with one hand, while rolling and pulling his balls with the other.

The man was kissing Ham on the side of the neck, and Ham flopped his head over as the man's teeth found Ham's carotid artery and slit it, allowing the man to feed there. Ham felt the man's cock getting even larger, and he felt something else too. The man's chest seemed to be filling out, the pecs he was pushing into Ham's shoulder blades beginning to bulge. All the time Ham was being slowly jacked off, which he found quite pleasant in a drowsy sort of way, as he did the sucking sensation at this neck and the steady rise of the monster cock at his back.

The man sensed Ham tensing, ready to shoot off, and he quickly took his mouth away from Ham's neck and came around to his front and knelt, taking Ham's cock into his mouth and sucking every ounce of the well-conditioned athlete's spouted semen, stripping his lounging pants off in the process.

The man Ham now could see wasn't the man he'd seen in the window. He was years younger now, and in far superior shape. His face had lost most of its crags and creases, and the man was downright handsome, even without those mesmerizing violet eyes. And that cock was a regular telephone pole. Ham had been in a lot of locker rooms in his life, and, truth be known, had stuffed cock and been stuffed, but he'd never seen a dong like that. And it was still growing.

After the man had sucked Ham's cock dry, his lips traveled up Ham's torso, licking at the wounds his fingernails had opened from Ham's belly up to his shoulder. He sank his teeth into each nipple in turn and nursed what blood he could out of them. Ham could feel the sucking sensation, but he slowly was losing any sense of pain. And this vacuum was being replaced by a dreamy sense of pleasure and well-being.

The man's teeth and lips had gone to the unmilked side of Ham's neck, and he had drilled there gently and was lapping up the flow. His hands were at the side's of Ham's chest, with the thumbs of each hand rubbing Ham's nipples, causing Ham's cock to come alive again.

Ham could barely raise his own arms, but he did manage to reach out to the man's chest as he crouched over in front of him, slurping gently at Ham's neck.

Ham could feel the years melting off the man's torso as he fed. Ham ran hands over slowly redeveloping biceps and pecs, down a rib cage that was reforming into an enviable six pack, across a flattening belly, and to that magnificent cock, already well over a foot long and hardening into steel. The man moaned and sighed, and Ham wasn't sure whether it was because of what he was drinking or because Ham was trying to get some sort of understandable measurement of the rising cock. The oppressor was whispering that name, "Adrian," again.

One of the man's hands came down to Ham's own cock, which was also on a modest rise again, and began stroking it.

It was fully engorged again when the man was finished at Ham's neck. He lifted Ham by his hips and turned his back to the keyboard and just lifted him up and gently laid him on top of the closed piano sounding board. Ham was virtually sitting on the keys and for the next several minutes he was playing a somewhat unmelodious tune with his butt cheeks. The man folded up Ham's legs, spread outward from his body and let Ham know he was to dig his heels into the lower and higher octave keys to maintain his position. Ham was able to do this at least for a while, but all strength and energy were draining out of him. It was only his magnificent conditioning that was holding him together at this point.

The man's mouth came down on Ham's cock and was able to swallow it in time for his second milking of Ham's semen, and from where Ham would see, another ten years melted off the man and another fifty visits to the gym pumped into him.

The man's mouth went directly from Ham's cock to his hole, and the man tongued him briefly there and then chewed around the rim, slitting the rim in several places and raising little rivulets of blood, which the man licked at enthusiastically. While he was doing this, a fingernail from each hand was slitting into the artery running up Ham's inner thigh on each side into his groin, and the man sucked from each side, in turn, until Ham lost all feeling in his legs and his heels began to slip off the keys. The man had his cock head at Ham's hole then, and he stuffed it in to the rim of the knob. Ham was being fucked. The cock was unbelievably fat and was mining deep, deeper than any Ham had had heretofore. But when he looked down, it seemed that very little of what the man had was inside Ham. Ham was being slowly pumped and he was enjoying the fuck, even though he knew he shouldn't be. And the stranger was obviously enjoying the fuck too, cooing softly and murmuring that name, "Adrian."

The man was getting worked up. He seemed to be losing his control. He was trembling and plowing deeper into Ham's hole. Deeper and deeper. Faster and faster, pulling Ham's hips down toward his pelvis, more and more of the gigantic tool disappearing with each thrust. Ham was still aware enough to silently scream and to know he didn't want to slip down onto that gigantic tool. But his heels slowly lost purchase on the front edge of the keyboard, and his hands slipped off the edge of the piano top, and he slowly descended on the man's cock. There was no question of going slowly enough to allow him to open up to a four-inch-thick, seventeen-inch-long cock, so Ham's anal walls split up almost from the entry.

The man, in turn, was becoming very agitated. He was murmuring that name again, over and over, louder and ever more vehemently. With a mournful cry of "Adrian," the man lost control and just thrust himself into Ham again and again, deeper, deeper, pushing the young man's now-inert body across the top of the piano with the force of his plunges, exploding his semen into the center of his prey.

The next morning there was no sign of what had transpired in the music room that evening. The blood had been cleaned off the piano keys. The piano top was firmly shut over the piano sounding board and was being held shut with a heavy canvas strap, daring anyone to open it before moving it into storage. Ham never appeared in San Francisco.



Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 06



The young, drunk construction worker staggered out of the Bourbon Street pool hall at three in the morning, assured that the resilience of his strong body would permit him to be walking the high beam at the construction site by seven, with only a couple of hours of sleep. He headed east on Bourbon and used Urselines to drop down to Chartres, where strong hands drug him into an alley and threw him up against a brick wall in the dark.

He felt the sensation of being enveloped in a black cape and a bare breast pushing him into the wall. More alarmingly, a huge cock was pushing at his belly. The young man started to cry out, but his mouth was covered in a deep, slobbery kiss. He immediately started to grow weak and to calm down as his mouth was invaded by an intoxicating injection of saliva. Within a minute he was under control and numb.

He felt long, slender hands go under his waistband at his butt cheeks and force his pants and briefs down onto his thighs. Sharp nails slashed at and dug into his buttocks, drawing blood, and causing pain, but pain that the young man unaccountably felt detached from.

He was flipped around, and the strange man in the cape was crouched behind him, licking and sucking at the wounds in his buttocks. He lay his cheek and the palms of his hand against the wall and searched his brain, trying to connect the threads through the effect of the drunkenness and saliva sedative that would allow him to respond to this assault.

The man pulled the construction worker's long, slender cock back between his legs and started to suck him. The construction worker certainly had feeling there, and this one was very pleasurable. The man expertly and quickly sucked him off, inhaling all of the young semen he could find. Then the man's lips and tongue searched up into the fold between the construction worker's balls and where his left leg joined his groin. He pushed the construction worker's left knee up the wall to broaden the access, and the young man dumbly raised his leg in compliance. The tongue found the throbbing vein, rushing young, healthy blood around the construction worker's body, and the man gently sank his teeth into the vein and began to suck.

The construction worker felt the prick of the teeth, but there was no pain. He did feel himself draining at a rate that should have alarmed him, but it didn't.

A flash of headlights from a passing car played across the wall and sent the caped man careening off to the side, seeking darkness and covering himself with his cloak.

Thinking the ordeal was over—or perhaps had never happened at all—the drunk and drugged construction worker pulled up his pants, wandered out onto Chartres Street, and continued his staggering journey to his little shotgun tumbling down house with the peeling blue paint in the nearby Faubourg Marigny district.

When he reached home, he wandered back through the rooms to the room at the back, his bedroom, where he just shucked his clothes and fell onto his back on the bed, immediately falling into a deep sleep.

In his sleep, he had a very pleasant wet dream of receiving a deep-throated blow job in which he came in profusion and in several explosions. He also had a stranger dream of suckling a grown man at both breasts, and the face of this man turned from middle age back to youth before his eyes. He also dreamt of his own vitality slowly draining away from him.

He awoke, still in somewhat of a stupor, but his facilities and control returning and quite agitated. He was on his stomach now, and he felt pain in his right leg. Teeth were dug into the vein running near the surface in the crook of his leg, behind the knee, and his blood was being sucked there, accompanied by soft moans and mewing sounds.

The construction worker came up on his elbows, turned his head, muttered an explicative, and started to jerk his leg away. A youngish, vaguely familiar man, with a strong, well-cut torso, naked to the waist, his huge cock exposed through an opening his black leather pants, flew up the construction worker's body, a black cape billowing out above him.

The man's face flew to the construction worker's head, and he turned the young man's face to him and covered the young man's mouth with his. The young man tried to resist, but the other man was much stronger now and forced his prey's lips apart and swabbed his mouth with a strong, searching tongue, transferring the toxic, sedating saliva. The young man stopped resisting the kiss and calmed down. His body relaxed and he collapsed down off his elbows. To ensure the venom had done its work, the man snaked his hands under the construction worker's chest and dug his nails into already ravished nipples. The young man did not jerk or lurch.

The now even-stronger and younger man lay there, stretched down the body of his prey, his chest heaving and expanding. His cock was expanding too. The man lay on top of the construction worker with his mammoth tool poised at the young man's hole. With a little push, the huge pile driver entered. The young man tried valiantly to adjust to accommodate, but that wasn't going to be possible. The man nestled his pelvis into the young man's ass.

With an attitude of class superiority that had survived the centuries, Emile did not tarry with this mere construction worker. He also was more than a little irritated that the young man had gotten away from him in the French Quarter. No pleasure to receive—or to give—here. This was just a necessary feeding. But the young man had what Emile needed. Vitality and healthy blood and other fluids.

Holding the comatose construction worker down on his dingy, rocking cot with once-again strong fists pressed into shoulder blades. Emile positioned his cock barely inside the pulsating hole, and he slowly and relentlessly sheathed his tool, sending it on its path of destruction up the construction worker's anal channel, drilling up, stretching beyond capability, plunging past all possible accommodation, splitting, ripping, shredding.

At nine inches in, the man's tongue started to probe the side of the construction worker's neck, probing for the throb of the carotid artery. The young man tilted his head, stretching his neck to help make the artery pop out.

ten inches in, and the young man felt the other man's chest muscles harden to steel and expand. He could clearly feel the man's taut nipples digging into his back.

The man's tongue found the carotid, and he sank his teeth into it and started to suck with a contented sigh. His fingernails were shredding the young man's nipples and chest.

The unrelenting pile-driving cock jumped to eleven inches as the blood squirted into the man's mouth from the artery, and it ballooned another inch and a half, causing blood to flow from inside the construction worker and to mix with his vital body fluids and to wash over the caped predator's cock.

The cock was in to the hilt at fourteen inches, but it was still growing, exploring ever deeper, soaking up and gorging on the young man's waning life.

The artery on that side collapsed, and the man quickly changed to the other side of the neck, with the young man stretching his neck there as he had done before. He did feel a pulse there, but it was weak. He sank his teeth in anyway and was rewarded with a small trickle of blood.

The cock jumped to fifteen inches. All the construction worker could feel was a weak pleasure, a oneness with his new lover and with that magnificent tool between his butt cheeks. He could feel himself melting away, but that's what he wanted now. He knew he was finished. He wanted to melt down entirely into the blood and body fluids his lover needed and to just swish down into that large slit at the end of that monster dick head. To become one with his lover; to give his lover exactly what he needed: renewed youth and vitality. And this was exactly what he was giving.

The other artery collapsed, and the man started a long, strong ejaculation at seventeen inches into the construction worker's ravished body, mingling their body fluids, becoming one. The rejuvenated man threw back his head and howled a victory yell of a young, vigorous, virile man once more, while the construction worker melted into . . . nothingness.

"Do you have any idea how foolish that was?" Lamont Breaux was blustering "You've never driven a car before. You have no documentation. You could have been stopped at any time. What then?"

"I understand New Orleans policeman are strong and viral and quite tasty," Emile answered, not the least bit concerned about Breaux's blustering. "You were putting off my feeding. If I could not go out, it was either the driver or . . . you. And I found going out by far the most appetizing choice."

Breaux shuddered involuntarily, the message not lost on him in the least. But he was trying to force LaCour to reveal where the rest of the treasure was. He was working without what leverage he could. He had thought that if Emile had panicked about not being fed on schedule, he'd be more pliable.

"I do not understand why you have denied me, anyway," Emile was saying. "Why did you not send the driver with me two nights ago when you knew I needed to go out again?"

"We need more money," Breaux responded. He tried to make it sound like he was changing the subject, but Emile wasn't dumb. "I need to know if there is more treasure and, if so, we need it. You are simply too expensive."

"We need more money?" Emile was trying to be bland, but all of his anger was rising up inside him. Why in the hell would they need more money this soon? Breaux was fleecing him. And he wasn't the least bit surprised. He knew it would come to this. Just not this soon. But he had already decided what he would do when it came to this.

"Well, why did you not just say this sooner, Lamont?" Emile said smoothly. It was taking every fiber of his control to keep his temper from boiling over yet. It was a very good thing that he had been well fed just before this discussion surfaced.

"You're . . . you're not upset?" Breaux was flabbergasted. He had just blurted out the next phase in his plan to quickly drain this monster dry. This whole operation was scaring him now. He was very much afraid he wasn't going to be able to contain what he had unleashed here.

"No, no, of course not, Lamont. In fact, just a bit ago as I was, ah, enjoying the peak of my enlightenment, it came to me that I knew where a bit more of the Fontnet bullion had been buried and that I must rush right back here and tell you about it." For a moment Emile was afraid that he'd gone over the top with this, but, as he had suspected some time ago, Lamont Breaux was as dumb as he looked. Cunning, but not nearly imaginative enough.

"This is the rest of it, then? Where is it?"

"On no, I do not think so," Emile said, showing Breaux and innocent little smile and creasing the lines over his now-smooth eyebrows. "I do think there is more, much more. I just cannot think where they put it. It has been two centuries, you must understand. And it was quite intellectually draining just to be lying in that cold stone tomb that long. But if you will come to the window and take a look down toward the pond, perhaps you will see where you might look. No, over there. Yes, and what is it that you see? Yes, yes, it is an oak tree, a might oak tree."

"It's buried near the oak?" Breaux asked suspiciously.

"No, I think not. I think it must be right under the oak."

"They dug right under a massive oak tree like that? But that's not possible."

"It was not such a big oak in 1799, you know."

Lamont Breaux was a humorless man. He didn't even bother to try to laugh.

But then Emile continued. "However, we seem to have spent a lot quickly. I would be much comforted if whatever was found here was stacked under the bed in my chamber so that I can see the rate of its use."

"Oh, I don't know . . ." Breaux said.

"Oh, I do," Emile responded it turn. "Otherwise, I think it might be very, very difficult for me to remember where the bulk of the fortune was hidden."

The two stood there at the window, Lamont Breaux making plans for the felling of a huge tree on the morrow and some work with digging equipment—that part to be managed by just he and the chauffeur, alas, as no one else should know what there was to uncover. At the same time, Emile LaCour was making radically different plans of his own. Alas, he thought it best to risk another solo ride in the limousine, though. No reason not to wait a week, though, and take care of two needs at one time.



Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 07



Emile watched them from the shadows in the pale moonlight. He had driven the limo slowly and sedately up St. Charles Street in New Orleans' fashionable Garden District, past majestic Second Empire Victorian houses. He looked for addresses as he glided down the tree-lined street in the dark of the night and eventually found the one he sought. Following the deeper shadows, he had moved around to the rear garden of the house to where he could see the moonlight dancing on the surface of a swimming pool.

The young man was the first one he saw—very young, probably barely legal. He was stretched out on a lounge, his arms folded behind his head. A lithe body, a swimmer's body. Full chest, developed by long training of holding his breath under the water. Long torso down to slim waist, and well-developed leg muscles. He was dark and tanned, and naked in the moonlight. A cock that wasn't especially long, but was slender to match the sleekness of the rest of his body.

Emile felt drawn to him. This was worth the trip in itself. He had hoped there would be a tasty snack like this in the enterprise. Emile started to move out of the shadows, but then he heard the splashing of water, as another, older man rose out of the water and walked over the lounge and sat down next to the younger man. The older man was a little paunchy and his legs were a bit spindly, but he was well kept for his age, and he had a nice long and thick dong dangling between his legs. Who would have know that Lamont Breaux would be so nicely endowed?

Breaux leaned down and kissed the younger man, letting his hand roam down that long, lithe torso to end up encircling and stroking the younger man's cock. The younger man gave a little laugh after the kiss was completed and threw his arms around Breaux's neck and brought the older man's lips down to his nipples. Breaux played there for a while and then moved his lips on down across the younger man's belly and his cock, giving him gentle suck.

Emile twitched in the shadows. So this was what the Fontnet money was paying for. Emile could almost admire Breaux now. At least he had good taste. Emile flipped his black silk cape open and ran his long slender figures over his naked chest. Not a younger man's chest, but in reasonably good form, and not nearly as paunchy or as old as the man sucking off the young boy toy. A hand went to his cock, hanging free from black leather pants without a crotch. He was at eleven inches, Just over half of what he could be after a good feeding. It made him angry to see the Breaux making love to this delightful young man. It not longer was amusing that this was what Emile was being fleeced for.

Breaux was kneeling below the lounge now. His mouth had moved from the young man's cock to his hole. The young man had pulled his legs up and out and was digging his heels in the edges of the lounge. His ass was being rimmed and tongued with great slurping noises, as he languidly masturbated himself. After several moments of that, Breaux stood and knelt on the foot of the lounge. With his left hand, he raised the younger man's right leg up and out, while his right hand was helping him to insert his hardened cock in the younger man's hole. When he'd gotten position there, his right hand came out and lifted the younger man's left leg up and out.

The younger man laughed and was voicing encouragement to Breaux. "Yes, yes, split me. Stick it all up there. Fuck me. God, I love your dick up my ass. Deeper. Harder! Oh, Baby, you're the best." All of the encouraging expressions to keep your sugar daddy on the leash. He brought his chest up, wrapped his arms around his rich old lover's neck and went into deep kissing mode.

Emile pulled in closer, knowing they wouldn't notice him. Watching, waiting for the moment.

The younger man flopped back down on the lounge and writhed his torso about, moaning. "Oh, Baby, you're so deep. You're killing me. Nobody's got the cock you have. Pump me. Give it to me." He closed his eyes and threw an arm over his face.

This greatly excited Breaux, who was about to blow. He stood up on his feet now, giving himself more leverage. Emile watched Breaux, gauging him, timing him.

The lawyer pulled his cock out of the younger man's ass, preparing to shoot his load on the younger man's stomach. But Emile had timed himself well. Quick as a flash, he came up from behind Breaux's ass, held the man's thighs in position with his hand, and had his mouth on the cock when it ejaculated, sending all of Breaux's semen down his throat. To a being like Emile, this was the ultimate sign of domination. No matter what else he did to Breaux now, Emile had mastered him.

Breaux was too shocked to do or say anything in time, and the younger man, his eyes shut and his arm flung over his face and most probably bored to distraction, had no idea anything was wrong.

Emile flipped back around, pushed Breaux on top of the younger man, pinning the younger man under two bodies. He slammed his semi-hard, eleven inches of dick into Breaux's ass, and stretched up, catching the left side of the older man's neck in his teeth, sinking into the carotid artery, and sucking hard.

He stopped briefly, but only briefly, before Breaux was spent, to whisper in his ear. "And how do you like being fucked? Still think you are going to fuck around with me?"

The older man became dead weight as the sedating venom of Emile's saliva mixed with the blood in the man's veins and immobilized him. Emile's dick hardened, lengthened and thickened in response to the semen Emile had imbibed and the blood he was sucking. The transformation was slow, because Breaux wasn't young, but any capture of vital body fluids was a fine snack for Emile. Emile's cock quickly shredded the aging tissue of Breaux's anal canal, and he was ruptured and his life blood and fluids were draining out of him, bathing Emile's cock and balls, within moments.

The younger man, under all of this weight was screaming and pushing, but getting nowhere. His mouth was open wide in his expressions of displeasure, and Emile took his mouth from the side of Breaux's neck and brutally pushed his lips and tongue in the younger man's mouth, swabbing his mouth with his venom-laden saliva.

When the younger man had quieted down, Emile stood up, lifted the body Breaux, and discarded it off to the side. Then he sat back down straddling the lounge, his thighs under the buttocks of the younger man, tilting the man's pelvis up to him. Emile's twelve-incher flopped down on the younger man's groin.

The younger man was still showing concern in his eyes, but he lay quite still, watching what was happening, fearing the worst, but not know really what the worst was.

Where to begin? Where to begin?

First thing, was that eight inches of Emile's cock, about where Breaux had left off in his own fucking of the boy toy, went up the younger man's ass canal. A good four inches were left outside, in waiting. The younger man's cock began to harden again in response.

Emile wound his left arm under the small of the younger man's back and raised him a bit. This brought the man's left arm up so that Emile could grasp it and bury his face in the crook of the arm. His lips felt for the throb of a major vein, and he sank his teeth into it and drank. The young man watched him in silence, only his eyes showing any sign of response.

When that vein collapsed, Emile moved to each nipple, in turn, and dug his teeth in around the aureole and suckled as much as much blood out of those as he could get. Both he and the young man were moaning and sighing quietly. The young man's eyes were not as clouded now. He seemed to recognize now that Emile was making ultimate love to him. Far better love than his old sugar daddy could give him. And Emile was turning into a young, handsome, cut, stud before the young man's eyes. And his cock. That monster cock. The young man could certainly feel that this was the fuck of his life. As Emile transferred the young man's strength and virility, his cock had thickened and lengthened so that there were ten inches in the young man, with four still in reserve.

Emile laid the young man back down and then stroked the man's cock to the point of ejaculation. At that point, Emile lifted the young man's pelvis to his mouth, pulling his cock out of the man in the process, and just drank in the semen the young man produced. Emile skewered him again, rising to eleven and a half inches, with the same four inches still in reserve. He pumped at that level momentarily, causing the young man to moan for more of it. And then Emile gave him more of it. Thirteen inches in and the young man's eyes were beginning to dim. His body involuntarily jerked at fourteen inches, and blood began to flow over Emile's encased cock. As Emile took the young man's lips in his for one final kiss, he pressed a strong hand at the base of the young man's tail bone and pulled his disintegrating ass canal toward him, taking in the four inch slack and two more inches the cock had grown in appreciation of the blood bath and shot his seed deep inside the swimmer's lithe body.

When all was quiet, and the vital body fluids had stopped flowing, and Emile's heart had stopped racing, he withdrew from the young man and stood. He stripped off his cape and the leather pants, dove neatly into the pool, and quickly worked off twenty laps of championship-form breaststroke. He'd never learned to swim.

He said nothing at all to the chauffeur when he returned home, but as the days went by and there were no further appearances by or word from Lamont Breaux, the chauffeur showed increasing signs of nervousness—and of fawning service to Emile.



Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 08



The bodybuilder toweled himself off and posed to admire himself in the mirror in the locker room before dressing. He was one ripped dude; hard as steel everywhere. So hard that his veins had nowhere to go other than to pop out on his body and flow across it. He liked that. All men of steel had that. He'd worked hard to get here. And he hadn't gone the easy route either. No steroids for him, he thought, as he looked at the fine hunk of meat dangling between his legs. He earned most of his money in porn movies now over in the second-floor walkup on Burgundy, in the French Quarter. He wasn't going to do anything to his body that would keep him from performing at top shape.

As he dressed, he realized he felt tense and hyper tonight. He knew what he needed; he needed a blow job. He also needed to do some work on what new twist he'd put into the movie they were doing next Tuesday night. He decided he could work on both those needs by spending some time in that porno movie house just inside the Quarter on Barracks.

He left the gym and strutted down St. Phillip and across Basin Street and North Rampart, into the quarter. He held his head high, his chest out, his tight butt tucked in, and his basket thrusting out in front of him. He was so self-absorbed that he didn't notice the figure in the black cape who was trailing along behind him.

The bodybuilder entered the theater and sat in one of the back rows, away from the doors. He knew it wouldn't be long now. He'd seen the movie they were showing already and thought it was a bit pedestrian, but it was nearly finished—the one guy was yelling loud as he thrust into the other guy's ass—so chances were good the next one would be more interesting. But it wouldn't be long until some dude showed up to relieve this pain in his nuts.

He was right. It wasn't long before a middle-aged man draped in a black cape sat in the seat next to the bodybuilder. The bodybuilder looked over at him in the dim light. Not the greatest of catches, with that craggy face, but it probably had been handsome once, and there was something about the eyes. The way he was wrapped in the cape, though, suggested a beer belly and a tiny penis. Oh, well, he was only here for a soft mouth and a deep throat anyway.

And that's what he got in short order. The man's arm extended within the folds of the cape and a long, slender hand landed on the bodybuilder's basket. The bodybuilder didn't know if he liked those long, sharp nails at the end of the fingers, but he did like Pop's directness and the way those fingers were finding and measuring his cock through the layers of material. He was hardening up pretty quickly under the attention of those long, slender fingers.

The man's fingers went to the waistband of the bodybuilder's gym shorts and he pulled the shorts down and off the bodybuilder's legs, followed by his supporter. The bodybuilder wasn't sure he liked being stripped down completely like this, but he didn't raise any objections, because Pops was already stroking the cock and kneading its knob in a highly experienced fashion. Within minutes, the man had lowered his mouth onto the bodybuilder's cock and was giving him efficient and tantalizing head. Prime physical specimen that he was, the bodybuilder came in three strong spasms that hit the back of the man's throat. The man licked the cock dry, and the bodybuilder assumed that that was that and his attention went to the new movie showing on the screen. He laughed, because he himself was in the movie now showing.

But the older man didn't leave. He leaned into the bodybuilder, obviously wanting a kiss for a job well done. The bodybuilder took pity on Pops and gave him a short brush of the lips. Or at least that's what he intended to do. But the older man surprised him by forcing his lips open in a wet kiss. The bodybuilder was caught completely by surprise, and an intoxicating wash of the man's saliva was swirling around in the bodybuilder's mouth before he knew what was happening. He immediately became woozy and lost much of the sensation in his body. He certainly found that his limbs wouldn't fully respond to his commands, and he fought hard, and unsuccessfully to put two thoughts together.

The man turned out of his seat and knelt down in front the bodybuilder. His cape opened and swirled around the two of them, and the bodybuilder got a glimpse that made him think the older man was naked to the waist and seemed to be in pretty good shape for a man pushing fifty.

While the man was pulling the bodybuilder's T-shirt off, leaving him naked down to his sneakers and socks, the bodybuilder was trying to form the thought of why this wasn't disturbing him.

Under the enveloping cloak, the man was sitting on the bodybuilder's thighs, facing him, and his lips and tongue were exploring the bodybuilder's torso. The bodybuilder reached down and felt something gigantic between the older man's legs. Must have brought along a super-sized rubber dildo, the bodybuilder was thinking. That didn't scare him, though, he'd taken eleven inches and been double fucked in his movie career. He probably had the slackest hole in the business. In fact, in this movie now on the screen, if he remembered rightly, he'd taken a full ten inches.

Meanwhile, the man's tongue was tracing the popped out veins crisscrossing the bodybuilder's chest. The man must have found one he really liked; because the bodybuilder felt a pricking sensation and then the feeling he was being sucked.

Hokay, he thought. It didn't hurt—much—and there was a real interesting segment playing on the screen just now—where he was sucking that ten-inch cock, about ready to be topped—and the bodybuilder was feeling lightheaded and disjointed anyway, so he just turned his attention to the screen. Pops was stroking his cock again now anyway, and that was a more interesting place for him to focus his attention.

At length, the vein the man was working on dried up and collapsed, and he moved to another, and then another.

The bodybuilder's cock was fully engorged a second time now, so the man slipped down on his knees and sucked him off again, taking in all of the semen for a second time. After having done this, he rose up on his knees and fluffed out the cape. The bodybuilder's eyes wandered down to take a look at him and he went into shock. The guy wasn't old at all. He was very well cut and was nearly as hard bodied as the bodybuilder himself.

But the bodybuilder had only gotten a quick look, and his mind seemed confused, so he wasn't all that sure what he saw. The man had quickly swirled the cape over their torsos again, and his tongue and lips were moving around on the bodybuilder's belly. There, at the edge of the bodybuilder's flat belly was another throbbing vein, running from somewhere near his navel down into the pubic hair of his groin. The man traced the line of the flow and sank his teeth into a likely spot and fed with little mewing and gurgling sounds.

The bodybuilder was feeling increasingly tired, he had developed a slight headache, and there was a quiet buzzing in his ears. He continued watching the movie screen, having a hard time focusing on it.

When the vein down into the groin collapsed, the man worked his thighs under the bodybuilder's butt, which was jutting out over the end of the seat. This tilted the bodybuilder's pelvis up. the man took the bodybuilder's legs and draped the beefy calves over the back of the seats in the row in front of them. The bodybuilder just watched him doing this, wondering a bit about what was going on down there.

The man raised his chest to the chest of the bodybuilder, and now the bodybuilder felt that the man seemed younger than ever and he also had pecs of steel, with veins popping out. What the bodybuilder didn't comprehend, however, was that his own chest veins now were collapsed and his thinned blood was madly dashing about in his body, searching for open passages.

The man moved his lips to those of the bodybuilder, and they engaged in a passionate kiss that stifled the bodybuilder's reaction to the man's engorged monster cock sliding, with some difficulty, into the bodybuilder's slack-jawed asshole. With effort, the bodybuilder moved his hands to the man's cock and realized that this was no rubber super-sized dildo. This was a living cock and it was larger and thicker than the bodybuilder could ever imagined a human cock could be. What a porn movie this fucker could make. It seemed like, what—twelve inches? This was a challenge, and the bodybuilder was game for such challenges.

His eyes went to the screen, and just as he was being slowly entered, there was a big close-up on the screen of the horse-hung, ten-inch dude slowly entering he himself from the rear. On the screen, the bodybuilder raised his pelvis to welcome the entry, and then he did the same down here in the theater seats for the man's ass splitter. The bodybuilder was getting skewered massively in two dimensions—both on film and in real life.

The bodybuilder returned the man's kiss. This master fucker no longer was to be considered Pops, as the bodybuilder could tell by moving his hands languidly around the man's chest, down his abs, and to his hard, flat belly. This had to be another bodybuilder, and maybe even younger than he himself. This man could be a star.

The man continued to work his cock into the bodybuilder, who was taken him in pretty good stride. The massive cock was a good ways in now, and it was pumping slowly in and out of the bodybuilder's ass. The bodybuilder sighed and was panting slowly, enjoying the fuck. He could take this for hours.

The man disengaged from the kiss and let his tongue work its way down the bodybuilder's throbbing neck on the right side and to his arms. He located a vein standing out near the bicep and sank his teeth into it. His cock stopped pumping at the mid level and was digging deeper again and now homed to the root at nearly twelve inches. The bodybuilder was groaning and moaning quietly, loving the cock this far up his ass, proud that he was managing more here than he was up on the screen. He did a little constricting of his ass muscles, a trick that he'd learned on the set, thinking that this would get the man's rocks off in short order, but the man's cock responded to that—and to the blood being drawn out of the bodybuilder's arm—by stretching out to immobilize the bodybuilder's ass muscles and by lengthening to thirteen inches. This was farther in than anyone had pushed into the bodybuilder before, and he was doing a little huffing and puffing.

The vein in the right arm collapsed, as did the bodybuilder's right arm, and the lips and teeth moved onto the chest and buried themselves around the rim of the aureole of the bodybuilder's right nipple; a little blood able to flow there and also from the left nipple to push the man's cock to fourteen inches. And it went to fifteen inches before the vein into the bodybuilder's left arm—and the arm itself.

The man moved up and on to one of the carotid arteries in the bodybuilder's neck, which was still weakly throbbing, and the man sank his teeth into that and sucked. The bodybuilder's head lolled back and his eyes rolled up into his head.

On the screen, the top pulled his long cock out of the bottom and shot off on bodybuilders back, and both the top and bottom shouted for joy. In the theater seat, at sixteen inches in, the bodybuilder was releasing everything he was—young, assured, vital, resilient, perfectly formed—to revitalize the man of the black cape and the monster cock for yet another week. And, in his confused and intoxicated state, the bodybuilder had no regrets. He was having the most fantastic fuck in his whole life.

The slathering of preejaculate and blood on the man's cock had pushed him to nineteen inches in and to a thunderous ejaculation deep inside the broken shell of the bodybuilder. Their vital body fluids mixed and the transfer of new life was again complete. 

The man withdrew and left his latest lover then; leaving the bodybuilder slumped in the theater seat, unseeing eyes pointed at the monotonously long and unimaginative doggy fuck the then-living bodybuilder was performing on the horse-hung former top on the movie screen. In this isolated case, the celluloid image had outlasted the real-life experience.

Emile returned immediately to Fortnet's Retreat. He was fed, but he wasn't happy. He hadn't been happy for several days. Scrounging around for his needs in dark, seedy gay theaters wasn't what he had come back to life for. It was luscious taking that aristocratic descendent of the arousing Adrian LeMoyne and it was even fun slumming inside that quadroon. That young man had had admirable musical talent and a smile to die for. In the dark of the theater, Emile had known nothing of his prey beyond the fact that he had been in superb physical condition and that those veins popped out on his torso by his musculature had been just too enticing.

Breaux. It was all Lamont Breaux's fault. Everything was going fine until Breaux had gotten so greedy and needed to be stopped. Breaux had arranged everything. And Breaux at least had breeding and position. He was someone Emile could come back to mansion and tell of the hunt.

Now there only was the chauffeur. The Latino who had spied on him for Breaux and who had neither good breeding nor great intelligence. All of that gold bullion stacked under Emile's bed. What could he do with it. Breaux had known how to convert it into something useful. But the chauffeur? The chauffeur hadn't a clue, obviously, how to change it into usable goods. And you can't eat, or suck, or fuck gold. All the chauffeur would be good for would be one terminal feeding and fucking when Emile was desperate. And he almost had been desperate tonight. Making do with hunting in the underseam of the Quarter.

Emile needed someone to maintain his life and turn this bullion into something useful. And he needed appropriate companionship.

Emile was no longer particularly pleased with this new world he had been unleashed into. 



Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 09



Emile had found this one particularly sweet, not only his openness to Emile and his willingness, his welcoming nature, but the wholesome, honest smells of the earth and of lush vegetation that came off of the gardener's robust, young body.

Emile hovered there, his gigantic, peace-bringing cock nearly twelve inches inside the beautiful blond prime cut of a man, with six more inches poised outside the hole, ready to finish, ready for that final mingling of vital body fluids that would rejuvenate Emile for at least another week. But Emile hesitated, savoring the moment, enjoying the sweet smile on the lips of the young man, who was hovering there on the brink of death.

Emile had seen the young man in a gay bar just off of New Orleans' upper Esplanade that evening and knew, immediately, that he would take him. The young man had been at the bar, boisterously sharing drinks with other young men, telling them tales of the ridiculous of his job at the nearby City Park, where he had, earlier in the day, been directed to rip out an almost-new plot of one variety of flowers just to replant the same variety of flower but just in a slightly different shade of colors. The men were exuberantly enjoying the absurdities of life and of the city park system. Emile had been hovering in a corner of the bar, enveloped in his black cape, sizing up the opportunities. The open, inviting eyes of the gardener's passed over the violet, searching eyes of Emile and then came back to them almost immediately to be mesmerized and drawn in. He wasn't the quality that Emile sought, but there was something sweet and vulnerable about him that Emile wanted to capture and possess.

With only a perfunctory leave-taking, the young gardener pushed away from his friends at the bar and walked out of the building, over to Esplanade, and up into the corner of the park. Emile followed him, keeping to the darker shadows of an already-dark night. Emile, in turn, was being followed by one of the friends the gardener had abruptly bid good-bye to at the bar.

The young man walked through the garden, to a small hillock that was topped by a table-sized marble column head from an ancient Greek temple, placed there for visual interest for those strolling along the paths. When he reached the column capitol, he turned, stripped down, placed his clothes in a neat pile at the side, and smiled as Emile—his cape billowing behind him; his mature, but still-comely torso naked; his inhumanely long, thick cock dangling between his legs from the crotch opening in the black leather pants—slowly ascended the hill.

The gardener spread his arms wide as Emile approached, his smile broad and his eyes flashing in amusement and lust, and it was the gardener rather than Emile who initiated that deep, completely open kiss, where lips bruised lips and tongues dueled with tongues, and saliva was freely shared. The venom in Emile's saliva was quick to assert control. The young man's senses heightened, while his strength and response were dulled and he felt drowsy. The young man's hands had gone under the leather at Emile's buttocks and were kneading the older man's butt cheeks when the kiss began, but as the sedative set in, he stopped kneading those and the hands just stayed there, trapped between leather and skin.

Emile's lips disengaged from the gardener's lips and traveled straight down to the side of his neck, searching for and finding that throbbing carotid artery. The young man was in superb physical condition as the strong throbbing there attested, and Emile lingered there a moment, savoring the strength of the life he held, before plunging his teeth into the throbbing artery and beginning to feast. The young man jerked and lurched at the bite, and his hands dislodged from behind Emile and just hung at his side. Emile disengaged and looked into the young man's face. He just smiled beatifically back at his masterful new lover. Emile went back to his quiet feeding, and the young man's back arched back and his head lolled back as well.

Emile was supporting the gardener's weight with his left arm around the small of the young man's back. This gave Emile no problem, because with each ounce he was drinking, he himself was becoming younger and stronger again. A fascinating zest for life and openness to adventure and seeking of total pleasure also was transferring to Emile. And that huge cock of his was growing larger and thicker as well. The long, sharp nails of the slender fingers of Emile's right hand were slowly shredding the young man's belly and chest, opening wounds, freeing rivulets of blood. The young man just lay back on Emile's arm, no longer feeling pain, apparently pleased at being opened like this, feeling his blood come to the surface and flow out of his body.

Emile's nails had dug trenches around the young man's nipples, and when the carotid artery went dry and collapsed, Emile move his mouth down to the nipples dug his teeth in around the rim of each aureole in turn, and sucked the nipples dry. The gardener quietly sighed and moaned, clearly enjoying the suckling. Emile rejoiced that he was giving enjoyment to the young man, happy that he was giving as well as taking.

The gardener had reached down for Emile's cock and was lovingly stroking it. This was an entirely new sensation for Emile—being pursued, being wanted, not causing fright at the size of what his partner was going to have to encase. The gardener was actually trying to coax Emile's already gigantic cock to grow.

He gently laid the young man's back down on the column capitol and lapped and sucked his way down the gardener's bloody chest and belly, all the while stroking the young man's cock, preparing it. When Emile's lips reached the cock, he took it in, preparing for its first milking. The gardener moaned and weakly moved his hips, letting Emile know he was welcome, that he was pleasing the young man, and sending little shivers of excitement through Emile's body. He rarely was given this response. When the gardener came, it was in a flood of semen, enough, Emile was sure, that only one milking was required.

Emile's lips frantically searched the young man's lower torso and quickly found a throbbing vein running below the navel toward the groin, and he sank his teeth here and sucked. As that vein collapsed, Emile noticed that the gardener had managed to get his hands to Emile's hair and he was running his fingers through Emile's now-young and exuberant black mane. Emile looked up and the young man weakly spread his arms in welcome and in search of deeper intimacy.

Thereupon Emile rose and stretched along the young man's body, and placed his lips upon the gardener's lips and locked his violet eyes on the gardener's hazel eyes. The gardener was weakly trying to return the pressure of the kiss. Emile guided the head of his now-fourteen-inch cock to the gardener's asshole with his right hand. The hole was wide and slack; the gardener had had many lovers before Emile. But he had had no lover like Emile. The gardener took Emile's tool in his hands and guided it to his hole, himself lodging the bulging mushroom cap inside his opening.

He was murmuring. "Fuck me. Split me. Ride me into tomorrow." And then he hungrily sought Emile's lips once more with his own.

Emile glided his cock in at least seven inches in the first entry. The young man's lips came off Emile's and he threw his head back, and whispered "Yes, yes," in a small, faraway voice. Nine inches and he was slowly mining the gardener's ass—gently in and out, in and out—and receiving mewings of pleasure from his young lover, whose hips were weakly working in concert with Emile's rhythm, welcoming the fuck, sharing the fuck, giving Emile fuck as well. Emile's mouth went to the carotid artery on the other side of the gardener's neck. He sank his teeth into the weakly pumping artery and sucked. Ten inches, but his cock was growing and thickening, and there was nearly as much waiting for entry as had already journeyed up the wide canal.

The young man murmured his pleasure and moaned and sighed quietly, Emile reached that final, no-returning twelve-inch point of burial. The young man could manage him at this point without permanent damage. He also could recover physically from the blood that had been let to this point, although, as the second carotid collapsed, it was uncertain what was happening in the brain, now starved for nourishment.

And Emile had hovered there, for the first time uncertain, loving this young man who had given himself so freely, openly, and joyously.

But to gain another week of youth and life, Emile would have to complete the ceremony, consummate the union, have his tremendous cock bathed in blood, mix his seed with the last of another young man's vital fluids.

He hovered there, twelve inches in, arguing with himself. The young man accepted him, wanted him. Emile felt so lonely in this never-ending life. He yearned for the opportunity to have a companion, someone he could share his life with, who would not be horrified by him, who would accept him for what he was and what he had to do. But then his cold rationalization took the ascendant. He had no idea what a curtailed ceremony would mean. He needed rejuvenation now, tonight. They were alone in a vast park, no substitute at hand. The gardener wouldn't mind. He had welcomed this.

Emile's mouth sought the young man's mouth once again. Their eyes met and in the young man's eyes were love, basic raw lust, and trust. With one swift stroke, Emile plunged nineteen inches into the gardener, ripping and tearing the last six inches. Blood and fluids bathed his cock, which immediately extended to twenty-one inches, and Emile spilled his seed.

The young man's mouth slacked open, and his eyes blazed momentarily and then glazed over. Emile rose and looked down at the gardener, laying there with the sweetest smile on his face. Emile had the strangest sensation. His eyes were watering. Could it be possible? Could such as he actually cry? Had he made a terrible mistake here? Had he thrown away the possibility of the loving companion he had craved by force of habit, out of animal instinct? Could he even love something other than himself?

Emile screamed in unexpected pain, as the sharp tongs sliced through the silk of his cape and entered his back between the shoulder blades. In one long, slurping motion, he pulled out of the dead gardener and spun around, pulling a pitch fork from his back and throwing it to the side.

There stood one of the young men the gardener had been talking and laughing with at the bar. A studly, hairy brunette, a football-player type, solid, all muscle; probably the eleven or twelve-incher who had been topping the gardener regularly.

The man stood there momentarily, a look of horror and hatred on his face that turned immediately to shock as he saw twenty-one inches of blood-covered cock hanging below the most magnificent torso he'd ever seen. He turned and ran, blindly down the hill and into a copse of trees.

Emile roared in anger and galloped after the interloper. Not only had this man tried to kill him, but, much more important, if Emile had known this second man was nearby, he would not have had to finish the young gardener he had enjoyed so deeply and had considered making into a companion. There was another one he could have fed on and performed the terminal ceremony with.

The dark interloper was strong and fleet, but Emile was now stronger and faster. They collided at the base of a large oak in the center of the copse. Emile caught the younger man by the arm and spun him around, his sharp nails slicing into the man's bicep and upper arm. The man screamed in pain and reached for his arm with his other hand. Emile lowered his mouth to administer his sedating venom, but then jerked back. No, this man, this man who had attacked him and stripped him of the possibility of a companion would not get the relief his saliva could give.

Instead of administering the calming kiss, Emile brought his hands up and deeply slashed the arteries on both sides of the man's neck, continuing the slash down his hairy chest, across his nipples and to his belly, ripping away the man's shirt in the process. The man fought him, trying to punch him with fists, but Emile easily fended him off and lifted each of the man's arms in turn and sliced at the veins under the masses of hair at his arm pits, causing the blood to flow down the man's sides. He was still screaming and trying to defend himself, but he was growing weaker from the shock and the loss of blood.

Emile ripped the man's trousers away and knelt and sucked in his cock. He had been right. He'd be nearly eleven inches engorged. Emile held the man to the tree with his hands on his hips, his nails dug into the soft tissue of the buttocks, and sucked and nibbled and bit the man to hardness and ejaculation. All the time the man was screaming and beating weakly at Emile's head. Just as the man was shooting off, Emile grabbed at his balls and squeezed hard, taking as much of this man's semen into him as he could get.

As the man was cumming, Emile snaked his hands up the young man's thighs, into the soft flesh where the groin met the leg and the major vein ran down into the leg, and he dug for the veins with his nails, releasing a flow of blood down the man's legs.

The man collapsed, his legs now too weak to hold him, his equally drained arms hanging loosely at his side. Emile hauled him up and slammed his belly and chest against the oak and entered him strongly from behind in a single long thrust. The full twenty-one inches, with the man screaming and begging in a ever-smaller voice. Now, only now, did Emile dig his teeth into a carotid artery and start to drink and to share his saliva. The blood and fluids slathering his cock expanded it to twenty-four inches before it stopped growing. He released his seed again, and the anger started draining out of Emile.

He laid the body down beside the tree and licked it clean of blood. Separating the blood from the matting of dark hair that covered the man's body wasn't in the least unpleasant. He rose and flexed his back muscles, assessing the damage the pitchfork had done. There was no pain and there didn't seem to be any damage back there; he had fucked the wound away, allowed the taking of the young man's strength to healed him. As he strolled out of the park, he wondered what the week would bring with this sudden, unexpected double dose of youth and vitality. Maybe it would be almost two weeks before he would have to seek another host.

But he didn't rejoice in this. His eyes were watering again, and he felt strangely sad and empty.



Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 10



Emile had just been renewed, and he was back outside a gay bar on Bourbon Street at 2 A.M. during Mardi Gras, not a bit out of place draped in his black silk cape, watching the entrance to the bar. He only had four days to pull this plan off. But if he did, he would be solving two problems. He was on entirely new territory, however; he had never tried anything like this in his entire 462 years. But he was getting desperate on two counts. He needed help maintaining his affairs and he needed someone to talk to and share with—desperately.

He stood there, watching the entrance to the bar. The plan needed to be set in motion tonight, when he didn't need to be fed, if it had any chance of success. And then success came swiftly to him. A group of bikers swept up and parked their big cycles right in front of the door. They were a boisterous group, full of laughter and back pounding and dirty jokes. They loudly addressed each other by name, and Emile singled out the one being called Gage for this brave experiment.

He was a mountain of a man. A blond Nordic God in his early twenties, decked out in black leather and cockiness, a cockiness that seemed justified by his physique; nearly six and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders, a deep chest, with deep cleavage, and narrow hips. He wore only a black leather vest on top and had on tight leather pants below that clung to powerful leg muscles and a big basket. He was heavily hirsute, but the hair was so light colored, that you'd almost have to run your hand over him to know it was there. Tattoos highlighted and accentuated various parts of his anatomy, and he had small rings in one ear, one nipple, and his navel. But above all that, he actually sounded literate in his bantering with his companions.

On instinct, he turned and was caught in Emile's glare while his friends were chaining up their bikes. Emile used all of the power he had in his eyes to trap the young man, to mesmerize him with his violet eyes, and to hold him there. And his power was sufficient. As the young man's friends started to bustle into the gay bar, he turned and waved them away, telling them he'd be in, in a minute.

When they were gone, Emile walked up to him.

"Excuse me," Emile asked nonchalantly. "Aren't you Howard Veal? Don't you work at an accounting firm?" Emile was running on raw instinct and a prayer here. He knew of no indirect way to get the information he needed.

"No, sorry," the Nordic god responded. It was plain to see that he was interested, though, and completely caught in the power of Emile's violet eyes. He showed no hurry to break off the conversation. "You got me on the accounting—a graduated in accounting from Tulane—but I've got a bike chopping business. I don't work for anyone else as an accountant. I like it that way."

"Sorry, but you do look like him," Emile said. But to himself, he was thinking, "Perfect. Perfect on both needs." But what he said out loud was, "He's a big strong, and what do they say now, hunk. Just like you. And I've fantasized about giving him—or someone like him—a very good time."

The young man didn't back away from this. Emile had fed just the previous night. He was in superb condition and in highly desirable looks and shape.

"I have a house out on the river," Emile said, holding the young man's eyes with the strength of his own. "Would you like to give me a ride out to my house? I could return the favor on a ride."

It was Mardi Gras, and Gage would not have come to this gay bar at 2 A.M. if he hadn't been looking for a good time. "Yes. Yes, I would," was the answer. "My name is Gage."

Emile straddled the cycle behind Gage, his cape still draped around his body, his arms lightly encircling Gage's bare abdomen, and they roared off toward the banks of the Mississippi to the east of the city.

When they were outside the city limits, driving down the dark and deserted road, Emile unfurled his cape and nuzzled into Gage's back. The blond giant almost fell off his bike, but he recovered quickly and throttled up to shorten the miles to the riverside. The man behind him was bare to the waist and was pressing a magnificent chest into his shoulder blades, and although Gage had seen that the man had been wearing black leather pants under the cape, those pants didn't cover his cock and balls. Gage could feel a big, thick cock of at least a foot in length snaking up the small of his back, and he could clearly feel balls the size of tennis balls. This was going to be a great night; he really got off on monster cocks, he himself being horse hung.

The man was already making love to him before they got to his plantation. He had his face buried in Gage's neck and was kissing and licking his throbbing artery there, driving him crazy. The man's long slender fingers were roaming around his chest and belly. It felt like he had long fingernails too, but the man was just dragging them around and teasing his flesh. He wasn't doing any harm. Then one hand came down and stroked his basket.

Gage was ready to explode when they entered the gates to the plantation and drove right up to in front of the steps leading up to the Greek Rival mansion. He kicked both kickstands down to hold the bike firmly in place. He then arched his back, threw an arm around the back of Emile's neck and searched for Emile's mouth with his.

"No, it wouldn't be wise to do that yet," Emile said mysteriously, "First the cocks."

Sure thing, Gage thought. That cock is what I really want too. He flipped himself around on the seat of the bike so that he was facing Emile and pushed the man down and away from him across the back of the bike with his big hand pressed on the magnificent chest. His other hand went straight for Emile's cock.

Hot damn--at least twelve inches and not even hard yet! The most he'd ever taken was twelve inches. He couldn't wait to go for a record. Keeping one hand wrapped around that cock, he lowered his chest onto Emile's, searching again for Emile's mouth but dropping to his big and hard nipples when Emile turned his head. He then just continued kissing and tonguing down that wonderfully developed body until he got to that cock. It was so big that he got it into his mouth with great difficulty, but he did manage to give the man good head, and the man was loving it like he rarely got it. And maybe he didn't. Most dudes would just faint away dead when encountering a cock like that.

Gage prepared himself for a gusher at the back of his throat as he felt Emile preparing to explode, but he was surprised when Emile pushed him off and down on his back stretching up to the handle bars when the crisis came. Emile shot off on Gage's belly and chest and up to his chin in several spouts that were beyond anything Gage had seen before. And then Emile immediately had his tongue running all over Gage's body, cleaning up every trace of that precious semen, not letting Gage have any, not knowing what would happen to Gage if he did get some. He stripped off Gage's pants then—he left the vest on and just worked under it as needed—and he felt a little thrill when he saw that Gage was uncut and had a small gold ring pierced through his mushroom cap that appeared and disappeared as Emile played with the foreskin.

Emile conducted a mouth and tongue and touching-but-not-tearing teeth tour of Gage's torso, paying particular attention to various tattoos and those intriguing ear, nipple, and navel rings. The tour arrived at mouth play on that foreskin and the tantalizing ring there and the swallowing and pumping of Gage's cock. He was gathering more strength and vital juices from his young lover, or who he was trying to maneuver into being his young lover and something more than a one-night fuck, slice, suck, and discard object. One problem Emile was trying to solve with this ambitious plan of his was the development of a long-term companion. Someone he could come home to; someone who would accept him for what he was and who would—and could—share pleasure with him. And "could" might be the operable word. And Emile also needed a replacement for Lamont Breaux, someone he could trust, someone who could convert gold into usable goods without attracting attention. Emile was in whole new territory here; he had no idea where the balance could be between Gage as a companion and Gage as a rejuvenating meal.

While Emile had been sucking Gage off, he had let his long slender fingers and those ever-so-sharp nails glide along Gage's torso, stroking and kneading and scratching, but trying to be careful not to so much as nick a thing.

"Fuck me. Fuck me," Gage was whispering. "Put that luscious cock in me and fuck me." He reached down for Emile's cock and exclaimed with both admiration and fright, "Oh my God, it's grown. Oh, God, I want it to grow in me. Fuck me!"

"You fuck me first," Emile said, as he rose up and then laid back, stretched to the end of the bike's fender.

Gage leaned forward and reached for Emile's cock, but Emile encased it with his own hand and pulled it up onto his belly. "No, I said for you to fuck me first. I'll handle this myself. You are to do as I say. It is very important that you let me lead. Your very life might depend on it. Suck my asshole and then fuck me."

Gage dutifully stripped the black leather pants off Emile's legs and threw them aside. He held Emile's wonderfully sculptured legs up and out and went for his asshole with his mouth. When he had Emile prepared there, he slid along the seat with his hips and entered the other man. Bubbles of pleasure popped off in his head as he slid up Emile's canal. Emile also seemed to be enjoying being plowed by someone as big as Gage, especially the drag of the gold ring across his prostate and against the walls of his ass canal. Six inches in, it was like some suction cup dropped around the rim of Gage's tool and both pulled it farther in, a good nine or ten inches, and sucked and pumped it, causing him to ejaculate much sooner than he wanted, but producing far more cum than he usually did.

When his cock was released, and he had pulled out, Gage began to beg to be fucked again.

"Not now, Later maybe. But now you can kiss me."

Gage quite willingly allowed himself to be laid back against the handlebars again for Emile to give him a deep, saliva exchanging kiss. Gage felt himself going slightly numb and loosing the capability in his limbs to receive a coherent command from his brain. Emile's kiss dropped to Gage's neck and, for an ever-short time, Emile sank his teeth in and sucked. He didn't know where the tolerance levels were between enslavement and death, so he would take this slowly. Still it was very good that he didn't need to be fed tonight. Perhaps he could maintain control over his instincts.

Despite his reasoning, Emile had to fight hard with himself to pull away from Gage at that point, but he did so. He got off the cycle, picked up his pants, and put his hand out toward the young man he hoped was becoming his protégé.

"Come, Gage. I will show you to your room."

Without raising a question, Gage dreamily rose from the seat of the cycle and followed Emile up the marble steps and into the old mansion.

On the next evening, after dark, Gage was dutifully waiting for Emile, sitting on the end of his bed, completely nude. Emile entered the room, also stark naked, and walked up to Gage. They exchanged deep looks, and Gage took Emile's huge tool in his hands and mouth and made love to the cock and balls. Gage swirled his tongue and lips all over the bulbous knob of Emile's cock and ran his tongue up and down the throbbing vein running down the underside of the rod, and then got his mouth around the head, with difficulty, and slowly churned the cock back and forth, swallowing as much of it as he could. Emile was so lost in the pleasure of the expert blow job that he didn't disconnect before Gage had gotten a good taste of some of his precum. Electric flashes of light were popping off in Gage's head, and he could feel his muscles expanding, getting ever harder.

Emile extracted his cock, not noticing how Gage had slowly bulked up before his eyes. He dropped to his knees and took Gage by the thighs and tipped him up and pushed his legs out and started rimming and tonguing his asshole. After he had opened and moistened Gage's hole, he stood and, with great difficulty, rolled a condom on the end of his cock.

"Oh, you don't have to do that for me," Gage said.

"It's for me," Emile answered. He had no intention of sharing his precious cum with his lover in training. And then he pushed a funnel-shaped object onto his cock, ran straps around his waist and through his legs and tied them off at the small of his back.

"What in the hell?" Gage exclaimed.

"This . . .?" Emile. "This is for you, my sweet, young, very nice piece of ass. This will keep me from hurting you too much. It ensures that no more than thirteen inches can go into you. And there's a bonus for you. See, right here on the edge of the funnel? Studs, rubbery studs, with rubber spikes, that will give your ass rim an extra little attention when I get that deep. As you can see, I'm also putting on kid-leather gloves to make sure that I don't scratch you too deeply with these nails of mine when we are in the throes of passion."

Gage didn't care about the gloves. He cared about being fucked deeply. "But thirteen inches? I was rather hoping for . . ."

"More? Well, I am too, but we'll take this slowly. Again, I don't want to waste you."

"Waste me? What an interesting way to put it."

"Yes, well, over on your side."

Gage did as Emile commanded him, and, when Emile draped Gage's right leg up his torso and entered him in a side split and slowly pushed in and pumped and churned to an eleven-inch depth. He was stroking Gage's cock, and when Gage was ready to ejaculate, Emile withdrew and went to the cock with his mouth, drinking in all of Gage's manly juices. Emile's physique bulked up noticeably and his cock jumped a couple of inches longer and became thicker. Then Emile turned Gage on his other side and side split him from there. Gage was bucking and writhing and moaning when Emile had gotten to a thirteen-inch depth, and Gage fairly came off the bed when those spiked studs on Emile's funnel cock ring latched onto the rim of his asshole.

He screamed in pleasure, brought his leg off of Emile's torso, pushed the older man to the floor, straddled him from above and took over the pumping duties. He lowered his mouth to Emile's and they engaged in a long, lingering kiss, during which Emile shoot his load, bursting an already-overstretched condom and sending his load deep into Gage. As Gage was growing drowsy and losing his orientation from the venom in Emile's saliva, the load of cum exploding and bathed his insides, sending electric shocks of pleasure and power through him that he'd never experienced before. He could feel his insides expanding, developing superhuman form and strength.

After Emile had laid his young lover up on the bed and started to clean himself up, he noticed the split condom and went into a panic. "What have I done?" he wondered. "Will he still be alive tomorrow night?"

But Gage was still alive the next night and they repeated their love making. And, as careful as he was trying to be, when Gage was blowing Emile, Emile once again donated some of his precious precum to a Gage who was growing hungrier for what Emile had, but a clever Gage, who was playing docile and cooperative to sustain Emile's confidence.

On the third night, while Emile was fucking Gage and Gage was screaming for the fuck, Emile gave Gage his proposal—to remain with him and be his lover and his financial manager—and the younger man accepted with enthusiasm and alacrity. He didn't even flinch when Emile told him exactly what Emile was and how he maintained himself. This had been the dangerous edge of this whole experiment—or so Emile thought—and the balance between whether Gage lived or died.

The funnel was coming loose and Emile went up on his knees in the bed and began to restrap it. Gage had proven to be so good at taking big cock that the funnel now was set at fourteen and a half inches. But as Emile was fumbling with the straps, Gage just laughed, grabbed the funnel, threw it aside, and drew Emile into him. Although the second night the condom Emile had used had held, tonight Gage had drawn Philippe's cock deep inside himself before Emile had had the chance to sheath himself. Gage wrapped his arms around Emile's torso and his legs around his buttocks and held Emile inside him, writhing and bucking to encourage the growing of Emile's cock inside him. And grow it did, to seventeen inches before starting to throw off fireworks-producing flecks of precum, which strengthened Gage's canal and set his canal muscles into contractions and churnings—which only excited Emile's cock more. Emile was almost twenty inches in, marveling at the depth and width that Gage was able to handle, before he gathered all of his strength and threw off the bonds of Gage's arms and legs and slid out of Gage just in time to cum all over the younger man's belly and chest.

Gage laughed and hooted all the time Emile was frantically licking off his hard torso, searching for every vestige of his magic semen, not wanting Gage to get any by accident.

When he was finished, Emile looked up into Gage's laughing eyes. He could have sworn that Gage had light-blue eyes, but now they were darker, almost a shade of . . . violet.

The next evening, Emile wanted to go on the prowl. He didn't fully need to yet; he'd found that snacking on Gage kept him in trim better and that he probably could go longer without an extensive feeding now and would never degenerate as much as he had been doing between renewals. Now he could cruise without the nagging need to reach a conclusion within a certain time frame. But tonight he felt ready for another snack beyond Gage and had ordered his chauffeur to bring the limousine around, even though, if everything went well, he wouldn't actually need the car. It was time to put the second part of his plan into operation.

When the chauffeur started around the car to open the door for Emile, Emile met him behind the trunk.

The man had to go. He was connected to the Lamont Breaux past. He knew too much and he wasn't bright enough to be trusted to keep silent. He also had suggested that he should have a hefty raise, leaving no doubt in Emile's mind where that road led. The man had to go. Luckily he was a hot Latin with a very good body. So Emile could at least enjoy the send off.

"I'm sorry, Ricardo," Emile said to him. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go now. Meet my new chauffeur." He turned, and there was Gage, very nicely decked out in a chauffeur's uniform.

The young Argentine turned to face Emile with shock and confusion in his face.

He barely saw the flashing nails as they descended on him. Emile pushed the young Latino down on the trunk of the limo. His cape billowed out and around them, as his slashing teeth went to the young man's carotid artery in the hollow of his neck, sank, and drank deeply. He was injecting sedating saliva as quickly as he was ingesting the hot Latin's blood. At the same time, he was slicing at the Argentine's shirt and pants with those long, sharp nails. The young man's struggles quickly dissipated under the influence of the numbing venom, and he lay there, open to whatever Emile wanted to do.

Emile's mouth and teeth went to the Argentine's nipples and tore and suck at those while his nails shredded the man's shirt off him and then proceeded to bloody up his chest and belly. Emile quickly worked his way, sucking and licking, down the man's torso, and had his pants off and was engorging and sucking off his cock while there was still time. When the man had jacked off down Emile's throat and his semen had been sucked dry, Emile munched on those veins running between the groin and legs briefly and then just rose, brought his monster cock to the man's asshole and rammed it in. The man's channel walls split immediately, bathing Emile's cock in blood and causing it to burgeon in size, as Emile drove in twenty inches, and shot off deep inside the unfortunate South American. He then just pulled out of the man who had served him faithfully and well for four years and let the body slide off the trunk of the limo onto the garage floor.




Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 11



Emile LaCour, with his new chauffeur, Gage, in tow was gliding around the nighttime shadows of the docks along the banks of the Mississippi down river from New Orleans. It was in those brief hours between 1 and 4 A.M. when, for the most part, all activity was dead and the weak floodlights fought a losing battle with the morning fog to illuminate the bank-upon-bank of simple sheds providing inadequate cover for the crates and barrels being unloaded from the freighters wallowing back and forth at the dock on the Mississippi tide.

Emile pricked up his ears and moved with more purposeful direction toward one of the holding sheds. There he found what he was looking for. A older and wizened sailor was leaning back on a wooden crate, providing a younger sailor knelt before him a tutorial in giving good head. The older sailor, a burly red head, topless and his pants down around his ankles and with considerable curly hair all over his robust body, was leaning back on the top of the crate with his elbows, but occasionally bringing a hand forward to guide the youngster's head or to readjust his cock. The younger sailor, a long and lithe, well-muscled brunette was stripped to the waist.

"No teeth, Jaime," the older one was saying. "You must learn to get those out of the way. There, that's right. Now suck the head, Lad, and run your tongue around the helmet. No, lighter than that. There. Ahhhh, yes, now you have it. Feel my nice cock growing, Son? No use deep-throating and pumping until it's at least half hard. There, now, cover as much of it as you can. Tongue under dick. Ahhhh, yes, just like that. Feel the throbbing vein under it? That's what's making it grow, My Boy. Now slowly take it in and pull away from it. Slow strokes. Ahhhh, yes. Yes! Now faster. Ahhhhhhh."

Emile watched with great interest as the younger sailor followed the older sailor's direction, his hands fluttering all over the older man's belly, flanks, and chest, his back muscles and biceps rolling in the weak light from a nearby floodlight. This was the one Emile was looking for tonight. The young, pure sailor, only now learning to make another man happy. But the older, more experienced one, would give him a boost too. The older one first—as a bit of fun—and then the younger one, as the regeneration he required.

Emile bided his time, watching the younger man blow the older one and becoming more expert at it under the instruction of the older one, until Emile could see the older one twitching, ready to explode. He then rushed in, black cape unfurling behind him, naked to the waist, his gigantic tool and balls flopping in front of him, protruding from the crotch hole in his black leather pants. He grabbed the younger man by his shoulders, raised him to his feet, and tossed the shocked youngster back toward Gage.

"Here, hold him for me for later."

And then he quickly stripped off his leather pants and jumped up on the crate, straddled the older sailor's pelvis, and spitted himself on the man's well-endowed and engorged dong.

The sailor was surprised, but he was horny and game. "Hello," he said with a big smile. "Where did you come from, Beautiful? And what elephant did you steal this lovely huge cock from?"

Emile pumped the sailor vigorously, and his cock and balls beat on the man's belly and chest at least briefly, until the older sailor took possession of them. It took a hand each to hold Emile's balls, and the man was able to arch enough forward to get the glans of Emile's cock in his mouth, which was a mouthful in its own right.

This didn't last too long, though, because the sailor shot his load, which caused Emile's cock to harden. He was back off the crate top in a flash and had his mouth to the sailor's asshole, moistening him up there. The sailor was having a jolly old time of it, throwing out directions on his likes and dislikes, as he had for the younger sailor. But Emile was just ignoring him.

The sailor's cock was hardening again and Emile turned his attention to that. He grew weary of the sailor's comments on what to do, and he buried his teeth in that throbbing vein running on the underside of the cock and drank his fill, replacing the sailor's blood with toxic saliva, which quickly quieted down his prey. He then took his cock and entered the sailor, churning around in him at the ten- and eleven-inch depth for as long as it suited him. When he'd had enough of this, he forced himself in the remaining nine inches, ripping and shredding and slathering his cock in blood. He held himself in check then. He was saving his load for the younger sailor.

When he had calmed down, he withdrew from the older sailor's inert body and turned to retrieve the younger prize from his chauffeur and companion only to be petrified in shock.

What he saw when he turned was a naked Gage, pelvis to pelvis with a naked young sailor, whose long, lithe torso was arched back. His dull, dimming eyes were staring at Emile, almost as if he was pleading for help. Blood was running around the base of the cock sheathed by the young sailor's asshole and down the thighs of both men. Gage turned his now-violet eyes toward his mentor, a big, sly smile on his face, and he languidly put an arm under the young sailor's back, raised the torso toward him, and, as Emile stood, frozen in shock, Gage buried his teeth in a carotid artery running up the side the sailor's neck and sucked blood deeply. The youngster's head lolled back, and he was gone.

Gage slowly released his hold on the sailor's body, which drifted toward the ground as it slid off of Gage's twenty-inch cock. Emile just stood there in disbelief, as Gage pulled belts from both of the dead men's discarded pants, attached one to the other, and neatly bound Emile's hands behind him, disabling those sharp nails of his mentor and lover. Then Gage pushed Emile down on top of a crate on his back and went around and tied off the belts so that Emile was stretched on top of a crate and denied the use of his hands and arms.

Gage then came around and sucked off Emile's gigantic cock, stealing the magic semen Emile had intended to mix with the rich blood of the younger sailor himself. Now two magic loads were being combined; two master cocks and two monster ass canals were at play.

After Emile ejaculated, Gage held his legs out, entered him slowly, plowed his way down to twenty inches, and churned around and pumped at various depths. Emile was still numb from the sudden change in circumstance, but this was a fuck like no other fuck he'd had in his long, long life, and he was enjoying the ride. His own cock had reengorged and was stroking up Gage's magnificent belly and into his chest cleavage, matching stroke for stroke with the pumping Gage was doing deep inside him. Twenty-one inches, and then at twenty-two inches the two shot off their magic loads once more, almost in unison. Gage pulled out and lowered his mouth and licked up all of the life-giving semen Emile had shot up his own belly and chest.

Then, he moved his lips to where Emile's tender groin met an inner thigh, searching for that throbbing vein. When he found it, he sank his teeth in it and drank.

As Emile's eyes dimmed, the humming sound increased in his ears, and he began to zone out, he almost embraced what was happening. He'd grown tired of the life he had known. Hovering in the shadows for centuries, trapped in the need to hunt and kill to maintain youth, a youth that he nonetheless could not enjoy. He loved Gage now and what he was doing as he had never loved anyone before.



Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 12



Gage Angle strutted down the stairs of his new plantation house, gathered his extra-long sweat shirt around his waist, climbed onto his cycle, and roared off down the long driveway on his way to the Hornet's basketball stadium in downtown New Orleans. He'd have to wear long sweat shirts like this when he wasn't cruising now or he's scare everyone he met on the street out of their wits with the size of his gigantic basket.

He didn't think he'd have to face the life that Emile had for a long time. He was still young and virile in his own right. He wouldn't have to feed yet on and take life weekly to rejuvenate as Emile did for years. He could enjoy his sex. True, he'd have to feed occasionally to maintain the monster cock and ass canal he'd inherited from being invested into the life of his erstwhile mentor, but he'd just have to see how long he could go between feedings and still keep his size.

But now there was some exploring and experimenting for him to do, and he knew just where he wanted to start. That monster guard of the Hornet's basketball team, that seven-foot-two giant Andre Harris, whose physic promised to match the proportions of his height. Gage had gotten his nuts off while watching Andre for two seasons. Gage had that front-row seat, where he could moon over Andre and fanaticize about what the two of them could do together. And now, thanks to his topping of Emile, Gage was good to go with a low hanger and a deep hole for weeks to come. It was time to make a play for Andre.

It wasn't as if they hadn't made eye contact before, and Gage had seen the interest in Andre's eyes when they did. And now Gage had those mesmerizing violet eyes that Emile's elixir had passed on to him.

So, there he was in the second half of the game, watching for his opportunity. Down on the floor they were trying to figure out a foul by someone other than Andre near the end of the game, with the Hornets well in front on the score, and Andre had time to look around the stands in boredom. His eyes passed over the big blond guy in the front row who he'd seen and silently lusted after for the last two seasons. His eyes zipped back to the man and to those violet eyes. He hadn't remembered the man as having those violet eyes before. They pulled Andre in, and then his gaze went down. The big blond was holding up his sweat shirt, showing Andre his magnificent torso, with all of those nice tattoos and the rings in a nipple and his navel, and then his eyes descended even further. Holy molley! Look at the basket on that guy. He must be hung a good twelve inches to push out a package like that—if, of course, that wasn't padding in there. But Andre could feel his own twelve-incher taking notice of that body.

Andre grinned wide and pointed his finger directly at the blond, who dropped his sweat shirt and pointed back, matching grin for grin.

At the end of the game, Andre went over to the bench, jotted something down on a piece of paper, and returned to where Gage was standing. Gage reached out for the note and Andre held his hand in his big mitt for a few extra seconds.

"If you think you're man enough," Andre said, "present this at the locker room door over there at eleven, and they'll let you in and show you where I am."

"I'll be there," Gage responded.

"Well, I'll let you view the goods, and you can always change your mind." And Andre and the team ran into the locker room and the fans cleared out of the stadium quickly.

And Gage was there at eleven. He presented his note and was guided through almost deserted halls to the Hornet's shower room. He was told where to sit, and then he was alone in the locker room. He was facing the showers, and there, through the steam, he saw Andre. Over seven feet of solid, perfectly proportioned black muscle, all in balance, including the twelve inches of meat dangling between his legs and the big tennis-sized balls. He was completely hairless and his body glistened with vitality as the drops hit and slid off to the floor. There was no indication that he'd seen Gage taking his measurement.

Andre turned off the shower, rubbed himself down, fastened the extra-big towel around his middle, and padded out of the shower.

"Oh, you came, and you stayed."

"Of course."

"Most don't, you know. One look at me in the natural and most scurry off. I scare people—both women and men."

"You don't scare me. I want you to fuck me."

Andre laughed. "Direct aren't you? And brave. But you're so hot, I'm sure I couldn't hold myself in check, so no can do on the fuck proposition. That was some advertisement you did out there. Flashing like that; beautiful bod and that basket. Are you close to twelve too?"

"Longer."

"Yeah, right."

"Try me."

"I think we can settle on hand jobs and partial blow jobs. That's pretty much the limit for me because of my size. But I'm hot for you, so follow me."

They padded through deserted corridors to a workout area, and then to a smaller massage room. Andre flipped on the overhead light, but closed and locked the door and pulled down a shade over the window in the door.

"We'll be okay here," Andre said. "They'll all be gone soon, and I've got the key. The trainers know I do this occasionally, and they don't mess with me with the contract I've got."

Gage backed up to the massage table, facing Andre, and slowly pulled off his sweat shirt and pulled down his pants, taking his shoes and socks off when he stripped.

"Holy shit!" Andre said. "I've never seen anyone hung that low. And is that a ring in the head? You're uncut. I understand that slides real well inside a man." He let his own towel drop, and his monster cock was well on its way to standing straight out, or, in his case, curve up in a gentle curve when it went hard.

"The ring comes with attachments," Gage said matter-of-factly. "But we'll see about that later."

Andre walked right up to Gage and leaned down, searching for Gage's mouth. Gage turned his head, deflecting Andre's lips. "That wouldn't be wise, I'm sorry to say."

"Now, don't be shy, Honey. Don't be a tease."

"Is this being shy?" Gage asked, bringing Andre's attention to his cock grinding around on Andre's thighs and to his hand that was already rubbing Andre's cock around beneath Gage's pecs. "But I don't promise not to tease."

Andre put his big mitts under Gage's thighs and lifted him up onto the high massage table, forcing his legs apart and moving in to where his and Gage's bellies and cocks matched. Gage had hold of both of their cocks and was rubbing them together; a meeting of the bludgeons.

"Can I kiss you elsewhere?" Andre asked. "If I can't kiss you on the mouth, can I kiss you elsewhere?"

"Sure, anywhere else, but I've got a cold and don't want you to get it. It's nothing to do with you. You are magnificent, and I'm not leaving here until you fuck me."

Gage had arched back and Andre was kissing and tonguing and sucking him from neck, down along his pecs and nipples and to the ring in his navel.

"No can do, dude. I go fourteen inches or more hard, and I get too excited when I'm fucking a hot fox or a hunk like you. I've hurt people, dude. I can't risk that anymore. I'll blow you and you can blow me, and we'll both leave happy."

"We're going right on by the blow jobs, Andre. I came here to get a monster fuck from you, and that's what I'm going to get. I came here to fuck you too, and, believe me, if you can take me, I can take you."

"Pretty cock sure of yourself, aren't you, Blondie?" Andre said. "But I kindda like that, even if it's all talk. You're making me real horny."

With that, he dropped his mouth to Gage's gigantic rod and started working it into his mouth.

"I said fuck me Andre. Fuck me now. The hole. Work on the hole and then fuck me." With that he plopped his rod out of Andre's cheek and raised his pelvis so that Andre's mouth went into his crack.

Andre went down on his knees and started tonguing and licking Gage's ass. After a while, he stood, reached over to a nearby table and dug out some oil. He oiled up Gage's ass as best he could, all the time trying to reason with Gage, to no avail. Then he oiled up his own cock real good. But he just stood there.

"This really ain't good, Gage. The last time I tried this, the woman went to the hospital and I never heard whether she recovered. I'm just too big for this world, man. I just have to live with it."

"Oh, for the love of . . ." Gage came off the table, taking Andre by surprise. He pulled on the big man's knees and he tumbled to the floor. Gage came down on top of Andre, straddling his pelvis and grabbed for the giant's hands and held them as he impaled himself on the athlete's curving cock.

"Oh, my God . . ." The blond guy had the widest canal Andre had ever plowed. He slid in six inches and then he had the sensation of a suction cup picking his cock up under the rim of the helmet and pulling him up, up, up, into the blond's guts. The blond's ass canal tightened like a sheath over Andre's cock and muscles moved up and down around the cock, driving the athlete crazy. Gage was arched back, his eyes focused on the ceiling, his own cock growing, snaking its way up Andre's belly and abs, reaching for the deep cleft in his chest. Andre had both of his hands wrapped around it and still they didn't meet.

"Oh God, Oh God," he was groaning and moaning and panting and gyrating his hips. Gage started pumping him deep. Fourteen inches of hard cock out and in, his ass walls grasping and releasing the cock as it stroked in and out. The suction sensation at the helmet of Andre's cock was sending little electric flashes through him, milking his precum hard.

Andre was writhing and bouncing up and down off the floor as he shot his semen deep inside Gage. When Andre was near to exploding, Gage had reached back and rolled and squeezed and pulled on Andre's balls, so that when he jacked off, Gage was milking everything that Andre had to give, which seemed like bucketfuls.

Andre flopped back on the floor, exhausted. He was crying. "God, Blondie, I've never had a fuck like that. You took me, you took me all. No, you didn't just take it; something inside you grabbed me and gave me the ride of my life. I had no idea how good it could get. God, I hope I didn't hurt you."

And then, "Holy, Christ!" He was looking at the cock he was holding. It had expanded to fourteen inches.

"My turn," Gage said with a smile as he pulled up out of Andre's lap and looked around for something to use to elevate Andre's pelvis.

"Christ, I don't know, Blondie. I've never seen anything that big and long. It's not even rock hard yet. I don't know if I can take it."

"Oh, I think you can. I've done the calculations on your stats, and if you are in the same proportion inside that you are on the outside, you can take me. And that's the whole reason why I'm here. Because I think you can take me. And almost no one else can."

Andre started to argue.

"I think it's time for that kiss, now," Gage said, and he locked lips with Andre's, passing on the numbing toxin in his saliva that he'd stolen from his mentor. Not much. He didn't want Andre passed out. He only wanted him to be calm and a little confused and disjointed, and feeling more pleasure than pain.

When Andre was calmed down, Gage commanded him to rise on his knees. The Athlete did so, Gage laid down and scooted his head back between the giant's thighs, Andre's softening cock dragging down Gage's chest in the process. Gage spread Andre's huge, bulbous butt cheeks with his hands and instructed the giant to squat down on his face. Andre did so, and brought his asshole to Gage's mouth, where, as he rotated his butt around and writhed in somewhat distant pleasure, Gage rimmed and reamed and tongued him for several minutes. Then he stood and pushed Andre back down on the floor on his back. He scanned the room and found a small exercise pad, which he folded up and pushed under Andre's pelvis, raising his pelvis up. Gage stood there, over Andre, within view of the athlete and rubbed down his fourteen incher with oil.

And then he came down and entered the giant smoothly and slid in to the six-inch depth. He waited for Andre to adjust while he took his cock in his hand and rotated it around in the hole, bringing it back a couple of times to drag his helmet across Andre's large prostate.

"Man, that feels good," Andre murmured, "An uncut cock; the loose-skin fuck feel. They were right about uncut dudes. Ahhhh. And that little ring across my spot. Ohhhh."

"That reminds me," Gage said, as he popped out of Andre and went back up to his feet and over to his shorts. He took an eight-inch string of small rough pearls out of the pocket of his shorts and attached the end of that to the ring in the end of his foreskin. Then he took a thick and long leather cock belt out of his pocket and wrapped it around the base of his cock and cinched. It barely stretched around the base of his cock.

"What's that for?" Andre asked dreamily.

"The cock ring? It's got little suction cups on it. You'll know when I'm all in and when you can celebrate our mutual victory."

"Oh." Andre responded, not seeming all that concerned. Still half drugged from Gage's saliva injection.

"And you can find out about the pearls right now."

And Gage came back, reentered Andre's ass, and stroked him slowly at the relatively shallow level of nine inches.

Andre was awake enough to be driven crazy by the pearls revolving around in his ass canal, seeming to have a mind of their own, interacting with Gage's pumping cock and Andre's own ass canal walls. He couldn't control himself. He spasmed and shot off again onto his chest. Gage dipped down and licked him dry, and his cock went to fifteen inches. Gage was still pumping at the mid level, though, and Andre was handling him without trouble. Gage went down to the eleven-inch level, and Andre as comfortable with that. This was close to where his favorite top plowed him. But his favorite top didn't have those rough pearls being dragged around by his buried cock.

"Show time," Gage said, as he pulled out of Andre and told him to stand and bend over the massage table. Andre did so. His torso arched over the top of the table and he put his cheek on the back wall and laid his palms on the wall, as Gage dragged over the folded mat to give him the necessary height. Gage, now at sixteen inches, took Andre by the hips, tilted his pelvis back, raised his left foot to the side of the massage table to add to his leverage, pulled Andre's butt cheeks aside, and entered him and went to the twelve-inch level before he started pumping again, and then shortly to thirteen inches. Andre was panting and groaning. He'd never been plowed at this level, but he was managing. It was great. This was a fuck to be remembered. At fourteen and a half inches, Andre felt the little suction cups on Gage's cock ring teasing the rim of his ass.

Gage took his leg down from the table and made Andre revolve in place, spinning on the deep-encased cock to where he faced Gage, his legs thrown wide and his feet digging into the side of the massage table, so his butt hung out and was still tilted up. He head was jammed into the wall and his hands were holding his legs out. Gage couldn't help himself. He lowered his lips to Andre's big tits and bit him under the right nipple, burying his teeth and sucking gently, but not deeply. His cock went almost immediately to sixteen inches, and still Andre's rim was being caressed with those suction cups. In fact the inside of his hole was being suctioned as well. Andre had managed sixteen inches.

Shocked that he was feeding, Gage let loose of Andre's nipple. His cock went to seventeen inches, and he hoped to heaven he hadn't overdone it. But Andre seemed to have held his own. He was lying there, looking at Gage dreamily, his breath coming out in little pants. Andre held there in suspension, for almost ten minutes, keeping Andre stretched at seventeen inches; training the big man's ass walls to be able to take seventeen inches, and who knows how much more. Gage intended to come back to find out how much more, because now, to maintain the seventeen-inch depth, he was finding he had to pull his cock back. He must be at twenty inches now. How long could he go? Someday he wanted to find out.

When he couldn't hold his wad anymore, Gage slid his cock out of Andre just in time to shoot off over the basketball player's belly and chest. He turned Andre onto his back, stretched along the length of the table and then gave him a deep, saliva-filled kiss. As the giant drifted off to sleep, Andre murmured. "I'll be back. I've got a season pass, and I'm betting I can train you to take twenty-one inches."

He then licked his cum off of Andre, savory the magic fluid of vitality and longevity, and found his own way out of the darkened stadium.

This is what Emile missed out on, poor chump, Gage was thinking, as he got on his cycle and roared back to the Mississippi River plantation house. Not having to finish them; saving the good ones for seconds, and thirds, and fourths; enjoying your fuck. Training assholes to take it deeper than a foot; not always depending on following the routine.

It was two weeks before another Hornet's home game, but on that night Gage was there, cheering on his hero from the stands. Afterward, he found Andre alone in the shower. Chucking his own clothes off, he padded into the shower. Andre was happy to see him, which was a good sign. Gage went to his knees and gave Andre at least part of that blow job and the giant has wanted on their first meeting. When Andre was fourteen-inches hard, he lifted Gage off his knees and turned him around. He held Gage there like a rag doll, while he entered him from the rear, holding Gage's buttocks to his pelvis with one strong arm around Gage's belly. Gage arched his back up Andre's torso, wrapping his arms back around the giant's sides, burying his head in Andre's chest cleavage, and tucking his feet into the hollows behind Andre's knees. He was letting Andre dictate the fuck, and Andre, now knowing Gage could take his length, was freely and jubilantly pumping his new blond friend.

When Andre had jacked his load deep inside Gage, Gage climbed down off him and ordered Andre to the floor. There really weren't any other options in the shower for Gage to be able to take his cock to its root inside Andre. Andre stretched out on his side on the tiled floor of the shower, and Gage nuzzled in behind him. He raised the giant oak of a right leg on the basketball player and entered him, side splitting him. Andre thoroughly enjoyed the pumping fuck until Gage was at about seventeen inches in depth, and then he started to show some signs of distress. Gage dug his fingernails into the giant's lower belly in a feigned love act to distract his sense of pain and went searching for a vein in Andre's side that Gage had felt throbbing earlier. He found it and pierced it with his teeth. The tough athlete only felt it as a pin prick. Gage pumped toxic saliva in while he quietly sucked blood out; but not much, just a small amount. He was able to hold himself in check. The giant calmed down, and Gage mined to eighteen inches and held it there, training Andre's walls to stretch, to accept this as possible, and not to split. He went on to eighteen and a half inches, with success. Then he pulled out and ejaculated, and just let the precious semen swirl down the drain with the water that had been cascading over them during their lovemaking. He turned the water off and covered Andre with several dry towels before he dressed and glided back down the hall and to his cycle. 



Vampire LaCour's 2nd Coming Ch. 13



Years and then more than a decade went by with nothing much happening in Emile LaCour's rotting plantation house on the Mississippi beyond the dust accumulating and the oaken walls drying out and spitting. Gage Angle still held his mentor and tormentor in his bed chamber on the second floor of the mansion, shackled to his bed, and rejuvenating himself only when Gage brought him young men to feed on. And Gage did this as rarely as possible.

Gage wasn't Emile. He grew tired of the kill and the transferring of the essences of life. He didn't want to believe that the feeding, the transference of blood and other vital fluids, and the act of fucking a young man to death was necessary to keep him young and virile himself. He was sure that he could sustain himself now that Emile had made him one of his own vicariously by fucking and feeding on Emile after he himself had indulged—by extracting a percentage of the essences that were keeping Emile alive and fit.

Emile had just laughed at this idea, though, and had told Gage he would learn otherwise—that he'd have centuries to become accustomed to who and what he was. And slowly, as Gage felt himself getting older despite his parasitic leeching on the shackled Emile, he came to realize that Emile was right. He would only be able to live and maintain himself as Emile had by killing and feeding periodically as Emile had done.

But Gage continued to fight this reality. He exercised harder and became more healthy in his eating habits. But still, slowly, bit by bit, he was aging—not as fast as he normally would have, certainly, but still he was aging. He could not maintain the perpetual balance. He started hiking to fight the aging. And each day he hiked out farther from the plantation house, and each day he came back a bit more fatigued, a bit more aware of what he had to do to sustain himself.

He knew he had to make a hard decision, and one day while out hiking, he bowed to the inevitable. He was walking in the woods on a farm well away from the waterfront when he heard moaning and groaning coming from a nearby field having been left fallow for this growing season. He came to the edge of the wood and peered out from around a tree and saw two young studs going at it in the bed of a truck with its tailgate down. A blond beauty who reminded Gage of himself at the height of his biking days before he was enthralled to Emile was laying on his back in the bed of the truck, facing away from the truck cab and his head lolling off the end of the tailgate. He seemed to be staring right at where Gage was hidden behind the fringe of trees. The young man's well-muscled arms were stretched out straight from his body and his hands were gripping the sides of the lowered tailgate. His legs were open wide and his heels were laying on top of the opposite sides of the truck sides.

Gage watched the young man's handsome, square-featured face from where he was concealed and it was as if he could see the effect of each thrust he was taking. The blond youth was laughing and howling his pleasure from what a beefy black youth who was kneeling in the bed of the truck and crouched between his widespread thighs was feeding into his asshole. The two were obviously having a ball.

Both youths were easy on the eyes, and despite all of his efforts, those cravings that having been transformed by Emile rose within him and gripped him by the throat so that he felt raw animal instincts taking over. He wouldn't fight it this time, Gage told himself. To survive he needed to become completely like Emile. He needed to kill and feed without remorse, indeed with joy.

And here were two ripe for the taking. One to take home to Emile and one for himself. The decision was hard, but it was one of survival.

A loud cry of passion from the blond marked the black youth's successful filling of him, and Gage's blood boiled as he watched them take their postcoital time. And he was to find it wasn't postcoital at all. The black lowered his heaving chest onto the blond's torso, and they made a complete trip around each other's bodies with lips and searching hands and the black youth turned the blond on his belly and pulled his hips up, entered him once more from the rear, and slowly pumped the blond amidst a harmony of groans and moans and cries of desire.

This time, apparently satiated when he was done, the black youth rose out of the bed of the truck after they were finished, adjusted his jeans and plaid shirt, and sauntered off in the direction of the woods, toward the very trail that Gage had stepped off of to watch the lust taking.

The black youth made it no farther than ten steps into the tree line, when Gage was upon him, pushing his belly up against a large tree trunk and clapping his hand over the youth's mouth to stifle his surprised scream. Gage buried his teeth into a vein at the hollow of his prey's neck and filled him with numbing venom while taking a feeding of his blood.

The black youth fought him feebly and whimpered as Gage jerked down his jeans and entered him slowly with his monster cock, which had already grown to over twelve inches just from the anticipation of a full feeding. The young man's head arched back to Gage's shoulder from the tension of being so hugely invaded and his mouth opened in a silent scream, his breath and vocal capability having been taken away by the working of the venom in Gage's saliva on his body, when Gage's cock plowed him at great depth. Thirteen inches and then fourteen.

In a full feeding, Gage would have milked the black youth's cock at least twice before finishing him with a deep fuck, but his intent was only to immobilize this one. This one was for Emile to milk of his essences. So, as soon as Gage felt all of the tension go out of his victim and the youth just flop to one side, held up only by being sandwiched between the tree and Gage's body and being held up only by Gage's deep-skewering cock, Gage just let the young man's body fall off his tool and onto the ground beneath the tree.

He wouldn't be recovering for some time. Gage had plenty of time to feed himself and be back to take this one to Emile.

Gage stripped off his hiking shorts and T and strode out into the field, just in his boots and socks, his magnificent monster cock swinging like the clapper of a bell between his legs.

The young blond had only now come out of the bed of the truck and was pulling on his jeans. He turned and saw the now rejuvenated and monster-membered Gage striding toward him in all his glory.

And the young man just laughed. He gave Gage a big grin of welcome as if he had seen a superendowed naked man coming out of the forest toward him every day of the week. He just stood there and opened his arms as Gage reached him, and the two melted into a deep, searching kiss—a kiss in which Gage lost no time in transferring the intoxicating and drugging toxins in his saliva.

Drugged, the young blond let his beautifully proportioned torso just fall back onto the bed of the truck. He already had his hands wrapped around Gage's huge cock and was making astonished clucking sounds at what he found there. Gage brought his chest down on that of the young man and buried his teeth into the side of the stud's neck and fed quietly while the blond moaned and sighed his misty pleasure and welcome.

When that vein collapsed, Gage moved his lips and teeth to the young blond's nipples and pierced and fed on the large, dark aureoles surrounding those, making soft slurping sounds as he sucked there.

With feeble movements, the young man guided Gage's cock to his hole and helped Gage slowly enter him. The young man was groaning and weakly encouraging Gage to fuck him deeply. And he was laughing in quiet tones and murmuring to himself about the ultimate fuck he was receiving and how deep Gage was mining as Gage pushed into his channel. Fourteen, fifteen inches. And still the youth was staying with him.

Gage looked into his eyes. This was he himself, just as he was when he was being taken by Emile that first time. The horror of what Gage was doing—the process of taking another life to rejuvenate himself—was starting to push its way to the surface, fighting with the primeval feeding and taking urges that Emile's choice for him had forced on him. He couldn't help it. He wasn't Emile. This wasn't the decision he could make.

Gage felt himself going soft and he sensed the confusion and rising of disappointment in the blond youth writhing under him—wanting the ultimate fuck but having no appreciation of the cost of receiving that.

With all the strength he could muster, Gage flung himself from the embrace of the blond youth and from the bed of the trunk and ran back to the edge of the forest. He swept up his clothes with nary a look at the semiconscious black youth who had been meant for Emile's feeding and ran for more than a mile into the woods before being able to trust himself to stop and put his shorts and T back on.

There would be no feeding for Emile that night. And Emile was, as Gage knew he would be, beside himself with hunger and frustration that Gage had not brought him a young man to feed on. But what Emile didn't know was that there would be no further feeding, not unless Gage could overcome this sense of fair play and remorse at what he had been transformed into.

Three days later, consumed by a grief that surprised and concerned him, Gage found himself lingering a few steps away from the assembled group of mourners at a burial at dusk in New Orlean's St. Louis #3 cemetery of a lover of his from his earlier life. Jake had been his bike mate in the biker's club Gage had ridden with before Emile possessed him. They had been inseparable and had been enthusiastic lovers. After Gage had disappeared into Emile's world, Jake had left the biker club, had married, and had developed a highly successful automobile dealership from an initial startup of a bike repair shop. Then, old, fat, and overindulged, he had died of a hardened-arteries-induced heart attack.

Gage recognized many of the men who attended the funeral; he had ridden with them alongside Jake in that earlier life, so many worlds ago. But they didn't recognize him and would not have even if he had stepped into the grouping around the grave site. They were all well into their fifties, and Gage had aged, certainly, but not farther then into his early thirties yet. He was still basically the same young, beefy blond stud he'd been back then. They were all well into their middle ages now.

Gage ached in his mourning for his lost lover and his loins took a lurch when the mourners began to disperse and pulled away from a young man persistent in remaining standing at the grave. Jake's son. There was no doubt that it was Jake's son. A handsome, olive-skinned, dark-haired, lithe youth of delicate facial features and almost a dancing quality of movement.

Gage stood, transfixed. And the buzzing in his ears from the long delay in his necessary feeding began to turn into voices inside his head telling him that this wasn't Jake's son at all—it was Jake himself. Here to reunite with his long-lost lover. Waiting on Gage; wanting to be taken by Gage as he had been so many times before. Open to his lover.

Everyone but the two of them were gone now. It was growing dark and mist was coming in from the river and filtering through the silent cemetery. The voices were winning. Gage approached the young Jake and turned him around so that they were facing each other. The voices were right. This was the face of the youthful Jake, and his expression was one of surprise, certainly, but Gage could see the unmistakable signs of recognition and welcome. The voices buzzing in his head were assuring Gage that Jake knew who he was and what he had come for—and that Jake wanted this as much as Gage did.

Gage lowered his lips to Jake's and took him with a deep kiss, swabbing his mouth cavity with that intoxicating and numbing toxin of his. Jake seemed to be struggling with him, trying to push him away, but that had always been Jake's game. They had liked to play games of captivity and overpowering in their love making. This was just like old times. This truly was Jake.

Gage sank his teeth into Jake's neck and fed, and Jake increasingly accepted Gage's love making, letting Gage take him to the ground and cover his body closely.

Gage frantically adjusted both his and Jake's clothing and took familiar possession of his lover's ass passage with his searching cock. Deeper and deeper he went into his lover, who was moaning and groaning his passion and love for what was happening to him. Jake was weakly bucking against Gage, as always writhing in that sexy reluctance of being taken way he had to inflame his insistent lover and to urge him to fuck him more vigorously and deeper. Gage followed the old game. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen thick inches, drawing out with a sucking sound and then ramming home inside his lover, going deeper with each stroke, each stroke met with a groan of passion and desire from his lover.

And Gage—Gage the convert of Emile—was also feeding on his Jake. He left off fucking him twice to lower his lips to his lover's cock and to milk his essences. And he also took time out from stroking his cock in and out of his lover to seek out and feed on veins.

When Gage came at last some two feet up into his lover's gut, he lowered his lips to Jake's for a kiss of ultimate merger, but Jake didn't return the pressure. His lips were slack, and when Gage looked into his lover's eyes, all he saw were the whites—the pupils had rolled back into his head as he had breathed his last, sometime earlier in Gage's frenzied love making.

With a flood of recognition, Gage realized what he had done. He no longer was possessed by the buzzing in his ears. He had fed his full now—just as he was supposed to—and thus he once more was totally rejuvenated. But the clearing of his mind only helped the reality of where he was and what he had done flow into him.

This wasn't Jake broken and drained lying in his embrace. This was Jake's son. Dead. What had Gage done? His affliction had caused him to take the life of his own lover's son.

The horror of what he had done, of what he would have to do to lead the life that Emile had forced on him was overwhelming. With a cry of anguish, Gage rose and ran into the mists swirling around the grounds of the cemetery, leaving the broken and drained body of a complete innocent lying across the newly dug grave of the young man's father.

Gage found his bike and raced back to the plantation house. He ran up the stairs, full of hatred and self-loathing, prepared to vent all of his anger on the man who had brought him to this point.

But all he found was a whimpering old man, a Emile who had not fed in many days and who was slowly decaying back into nothingness.

Emile held out his shackled arms in despair and entreaty to his protégé, begging him for relief and affection. And Gage took Emile into his arms and made tender love to him, bringing a spark of life into the ancient one by transferring some of the vitality and youthful essences that he had just stolen from Jake's son.

But in those tender moments of merging their body into a deep fuck with magnificent cocks, revived by the essence of stolen youth, Gage came to another hard decision. When he had filled Emile with the flow of his manhood, he left him there, sighing and growing younger and stronger, and moved down the stairs for the last time.

He would leave the imprisoning plantation house now and the possessive arms and influence of Emile and prove to Emile and to himself that he could reject Emile's way. He would gladly become fully human again and age naturally and grow old and die at a natural rate. He would fight the urges of perpetual youth and the taking of life and its essences that this demanded. And he would just walk away from this house and let Emile die naturally too, shackled in his bedroom, no one to hear his cries or to save him.

Gage stopped briefly at a window in the music room and lit up a cigarette, trying to gain courage to follow up his hard decision with action. A gust of wind caught the curtain at the window and the flaring match touched on the dry, rotting, silk. In an instant, flames were running up the wooden paneling of the wall.

There was a brief moment when Gage could have done something about the fire, but in the same instant it dawned on him that this was a much more humane death for Emile than slowly rotting away from lack of feeding.

And, so, Gage just walked out of the house to where the grand oaks started at the base of the driveway and turned. The house was fully engulfed in flames. Who would have known that it would flare up so quickly? Despite the roaring of the fire, Gage could hear the plaintive cries of Emile. His mentor was calling for him; begging him to come.

Who knows whether Emile was working his magic on Gage one last time, if Gage had last-second thoughts of saving Emile, or if Gage realized that he was much too weak to will himself to grow old and die when eternal youth was within his power? But something made him make that last hard decision, the hardest decision of all.

After the idiotic gesture of dropping his cigarette to the ground and stamping it out with the heel of his boot, Gage strode back into the house and mounted the flaming staircase. He entered Emile's bedroom, and the two clung to each other as their world was consumed and evaporated in purifying flames.