Journey to Mirage

The cook had fed us with steak and cleaned up and left, leaving the two of us alone. My host put some soft music on and lit the fire. The wine had been excellent and I was feeling it in my head. The white bear-skin rug in front of the fire looked so inviting, and I wanted my head to stop spinning, so I laid down on that on my belly, facing the fire, staring into it and becoming quite mellow. My host left me there for a short time, letting the fire and the music and the soft rug and the buzz from the wine float me away.

He was back, in a short cotton robe. He must have been at least in his late forties or early fifties, but he'd aged well. His leg muscles were firm and I thought that he must have been an athlete at one time—and probably still worked out. As he leaned down to me, the front of the cotton robe opened and I saw a well-developed chest with a matting of salt-and-pepper curly hair running from his chest down in a thin line to where the lapels of the robe met.

"Some port or cognac?" he asked in a rich baritone. His face was distinguished. A lawyer or a banker or corporate CEO. Even after two weeks, I didn't know. He spoke little about himself, showing more concern for me. So kind. If he hadn't found me at the side of the desert highway, brought me to this big house on the ridge above Santa Fe, and had a doctor in to look at me after what the beating and the hours on the sand by the highway had done to me . . .

The steel gray hair was expertly cut, a perfect-teeth smile. A slight scar under his left eye—his eyes were hazel and so alive—only serving to emphasize how handsome his chiseled features were. Model handsome. A healthy Santa Fe tan smoothed out the laugh-line wrinkles.

"No thanks, Mr. Grimes. Another drop of alcohol and I'd go right to sleep."

"We couldn't have that, now, could we?" he answered, the low laugh conveying his mood. "And I've told you, it's Bill."

"I have trouble with that . . . Bill. You've been so kind, and there's such a divide between us."

"We must see what we can do about that too. Here, take a look at these. I work with photography. I'd like to know what you think."

He was handing a folder to me. I opened the cover to find a set of loose photographs. The ones on top were art shots—nudes—of a young, handsome youth. A bit younger than me. About nineteen, I'd guess. The photos were expertly done, although it wasn't the artistry of them that took my attention. Toward the bottom of the pile, the photographs were more explicit—much more explicit as I leafed through to the bottom of the stack. And the youth wasn't alone. Grimes too was in these photos. I turned my head toward the sofa to see the cotton robe fall onto it in folds.

I shuddered and stiffened as his body came down on top of me, covering me full length. My torso was raised on my elbows, as I was fanning through the photographs. His hands laced in underneath me and he was unbuttoning my shirt and then pulling it off my arms.

"Relax," he whispered in my ears. "Just concentrate on the photos and let your body drift with me."

I did what I could to let the tension in my body flow away. "Mr. Grimes. Bill," I whispered.

"Sure you don't want to try the Cognac? I still have the taste of it in my mouth," he whispered back at me. He cupped my chin and turned my face toward his, and, when he kissed me, I tasted the rich, full-bodied nectar of the wine.

His hips were moving against my pelvis, and I felt the hardness of him through the material of my jeans and briefs.

I felt the palm of a hand on my belly and fingers working at the buttons of my jeans. Instinctively, without conscious control, I lifted my butt into his crotch as the zipper of my jeans was being pulled down. I wanted him to know there would be no struggle, no indecision, no holding back for whatever he wanted. He had paid for this in full. All of the hardness went out of my jaw and I opened my mouth totally to him.

The moaning I heard was almost detached, but I recognized it as mine.

He wouldn't release the hold of his lips on mine and in the wake of the taste of the Cognac, his tongue had invaded my mouth cavity. I could hardly breathe. But I didn't care if I couldn't. He was still possessing my mouth as he was pulling my jeans and briefs below my hips.

Skin on skin now below the belly. A hard dick inside my butt crack, stroking up and down on the rim of my hole. I shuddered and groaned and he released my mouth and gave a low, comfortable laugh.

"The photos. Concentrate on the photos," he said.

I returned my attention to the photographs, pushing through the ones of the handsome youth solo, down to the ones of the youth with Grimes. He was moving down the line of my back now. Kissing and licking my shoulder blades, while one hand pulled my jeans and briefs down and off my legs and the other one worked my nipples and then came down to palm my belly as his lips reached the mounds of my butt cheeks.

His teeth nipped at the sensitive skin of my rump and I groaned as I heard the low, appreciative laugh again. I felt a light slap on each cheek and they were being squeezed and nipped again. A hand went between my thighs and pulled my cock and balls through. I tried to widen my stance, but he moved his forearms to trap my thighs close together, tightly against my dick. A hand possessed my cock and slowly stroked down. I raised my buttock further, presenting to him in supplication—for whenever he wanted to mount me.

"Bill, Bill," I whispered.

"Ah the divide narrows, doesn't it? Surely there will be no trouble with first names now," he answered back. And then that arousing laugh again. He clearly was enjoying this.

"Do you like the photos?" he asked. "Don't the two of us in these photos make the smashing pair?"

"Yes." It was a whisper.

"Does the lad look happy? Am I fucking him well?"

"Yes." It was a whimper, followed with a moan.

He had taken both hands and was spreading and squeezing my butt cheeks with them. When he blew across my hole, I shivered and groaned.

"So nice. Such a rosy bud. And already opening."

"Bill," I whispered. "Bill." And then "Bill!" as he kissed the hole and his tongue started working into me. I writhed under him for countless minutes as he tongued my hole and worked my cock with his hand. Intermittently he moved his mouth down to my cock and balls and gave suck, and during these intervals his fingers invaded my channel and found my prostate.

"Bill, Bill! I'm gonna come. You're gonna make me—"

"Oh, I hope so, Rick," he muttered. "I certainly hope so." And then he laughed again.

And I came.

He covered my back fully with his body again and his cock was rubbing inside my butt cheeks once more. I raised my pelvis further to him. Fully presenting to him. Wanting him. Wanting him to know I wanted him. "Bill," I whined.

"Ah, are you ready? Do you want me inside you? Permission to fuck, my young lad? Jeff wants his daddy?"

"Yes," I whimpered, all of my senses focused on the shaft rubbing across my hole, not even catching the reference to a Jeff.

He went up on his knees, reaching over to the sofa. I heard the slight rustle of the condom packet as he opened it, and then I felt the coldness of the lubricant he poured liberally between my cheeks and worked into my opening with probing fingers. My chest was flat on the floor, my cheek against the photos of Grimes fucking the youth, my arms splayed out at my side. I was up on my knees, though, with my quivering butt raised high to him, my legs spread.

Fuck me, fuck me now, was what I was trying to convey.

He crouched over me, pulling my chest up, me now on all fours. The cock was rubbing inside my crack again, sending electric impulses as it stroked again and again against my hole.

"Please. Bill, Please!" I begged.

He laughed. And then I felt the bulb presented at my hole and he was slowly pushing into me. I gasped and my eyes started to water and both my elbows and my knees began to quiver and to give way. But Bill, crouched over my midsection and continuing to enter me, held me up with strong arms wrapped under my rib cage. I felt his lips at my cheeks, and I turned my face to him, letting him possess my mouth again—masking my groans and moans.

Who would have known he was so thick and hard—and that it would take so much length of my channel for him to bottom?

Coming out of the kiss, my face was suspended over the photographs. The one on top was of Grimes crouched over the hips of the young man, who was on all fours—on a white bear-skin rug in front of a fireplace; this fireplace. The expression on the young man's face was one of ecstasy. Bill was looking into the camera with an expression that almost conveyed, "At last; in at last."

Only half hidden below that was a photo of the young man on his back on the same furry rug and Grimes kneeling between his thighs, knees under and raising the young man's buttocks, Grimes fisting the youth's slim ankles and holding his legs up and out, wide. I could see a good two inches of the root of a thick cock at the young man's channel opening. And again, that "gone to paradise" expression on the young man's face.

A third photo was of Grimes completely sheathed, the youth's legs running up Grimes's torso now, his hands reaching around Grime's thick waist and clutching the older man's thin butt cheeks close to him with fingers digging into the flesh, obviously trying to take in every centimeter of the cock. Eyes wild, mouth gaping open, and tongue hanging out. I trembled in anticipation.

He stroked me so long and hard that my elbows and knees did give out and, with a laugh, he rode me to the rug and kept on riding. He was babbling as he fucked me, and I occasionally heard the name "Jeff" spoken. But never the name "Rick."

Fucking me at such depth, and so filling. My channel walls undulating across the shaft as it mastered me. Throbbing, hot, relentless. Strong hands pulling my thighs in tight. Oh, god, the tightness. The almost despair as he pulls back. Oh, no, don't leave me! Oh, shit, yes! at the long hard plunge back to the depths. Yes! Again. Oh, yes! And again. Oh Shit! And AGAIN. Paradise. Faster now—stroke, stroke, hold, stroke—making me pant and writhe against his strong hands and moan—and beg for it to go on and on.

I felt him tighten and take in a long breath and then—with my channel trying, unsuccessfully, to close on his cock and keep him inside me—he pulled out of me, and I groaned at the loss of him and heard the condom being ripped away and then felt the flow of him on the small of my back.

He covered my back with his torso again and continued moving on top of me, stroking the small of my back with his cock through his cum. He hands glided along my arms and took my wrists. I turned my lips to him again. His prisoner for as long as he wanted me.

"I'm sorry if you weren't expecting that this evening," he whispered in my ear when he once more let loose of my lips.

"I don't know what took you so long," I answered, with a sigh.

"I thought perhaps I assumed so much. But you are so beautiful and sexy. I couldn't help myself. Hardly a good host."

"You saved my life," I whispered back. "And . . . and the perfect host. Almost too polite, I was beginning to think."

"I have given you every reason to think otherwise, even if you weren't consciously aware of it."

Rick didn't comment on this. At the time he assumed the man was referring to the current move to seduce him.

He turned me on my back, my head resting in the pile of his photographs. He covered my body with his, his cock lying against my own between our still-heaving bellies. I looked down the line of his body. His barrel chest with the matting of salt-and-pepper gray standing out in moist curls and below that a still-flat, hard belly—even at his age. I wanted to run my hands through the matting on his chest, to search out the taut nipples I saw hiding there between the curls of the hair. But he had his fists wrapped around my wrists and they were trapped on either side of my shoulders. So, instead, I dipped and raised my face into his chest. I found a nipple almost immediately and sucked it in hard as he gasped and then I nipped at it, which produced a yelp from his mouth and an engorging surge in his cock.

Releasing one of my wrists, his hand grabbed my head under the chin and forced it back into the pile of photographs and his mouth was hungrily attacking mine, his tongue invading, every bit as filling and probing as his cock had been. I gasped and nearly gagged.

I wrapped my legs around his, my heels rubbing up and down his hard calves. His free hand snaked between our bellies before I could completely push in as close as I could to every inch of him. The hand wrapped our two cocks together. And he stroked our shafts and worked my mouth with his until, with a lurch and a shudder, I came again.

He released my mouth and cock then. I could feel he was fully hard again. Amazing for his age. Not so much, though, considering the strength and power of his fuck. He raised his torso off mine a bit and looked down into my eyes. He was smiling that melting smile of his—the one I saw in the photographs when it was clear that he had mastered the young man to exhaustion.

"That's not fair," he said in a tone of false pout. "You've gone twice and I only once. Would you mind terribly if—?"

"I hoped you would," I whispered breathlessly, my mind possessed by what I'd seen in the photographs, as he knelt between my legs, pulled my buttocks up on top of his thighs, and reached over on the sofa for another condom packet. I lifted one of my legs up his torso to hook an ankle on his right shoulder while I watched him roll the Golden Ticket on his cock and prepared to raise the other to his left shoulder when he was crowned, positioning myself to roll up my rump to receive the deepest thrusts I could eke out of him. I spied three more condom packets on the sofa and shivered in anticipation. I had seen other photos of other fuck positions the young man obviously had enjoyed.

But who, I was wondering, who the fuck was Jeff?

* * * *

"Hey, guy, are you OK? Here, here. I brought some water. There, let's get you up and . . . for the love of god, you look just like . . . is it a mirage? There for a second. . . . Here. Yes, drink some of this . . . not too much at first. Later more. Are you OK?"

"K," Rick said. He'd been on his side, curled up, the pain in his side grinding away as the only clue that he was still live. The man turned him onto his butt and raised his torso, supporting him underneath with a strong arm. And he was offering a plastic bottle of commercial water for Rick to sip from.

Rick groaned from the pain in his side when his body was moved, but his hand with the bottle of water was at his lips and he almost had to be restrained from gulping down too much of it.

"Sorry, are you hurt? More than just the heat in the desert?" the man asked.

"Side," Rick answered. "Hurts." He looked up at the man. A handsome businessman type, slim build but good strength. Gray haired. In his forties or fifties. Beyond him, at the side of the road, Rick saw a late-model Mercedes sedan. Not the cheapest model.

The man had lifted Rick's shirt. "It's bruised. Have you been in a fight or something? Are you from around here? Anyone I can call?"

"No one. Just walkin' . . . walkin' to Mirage," Rick said.

"Mirage?" the man said and looked at Rick funny. Rick thought there was something else he was going to say, but then he didn't. "You going east or west?"

"West. Mirage, Arizona," Rick said and then he grimaced and reached for the water bottle. "Sorry. Can I? Mouth feels like cotton."

The Man looked like he understood better. "Ah. Arizona. Got to get through New Mexico first, and you're obviously in the need of a doctor—and to get out of this sun. I see there are other bruises. Someone's worked you over. The worst of them yellowing, though, not that recent. Here, I live in Santa Fe. In a bit of a hurry. There aren't any hospitals around here that I know of. I can take you to Santa Fe and have a doctor who I can get to look at you. That OK?"

And then when he saw that Rick wasn't responding. "That OK, son? Oh, lord, don't zone out on me now. I swear the resemblance is . . ."

But Rick wasn't listening. Rick had lost consciousness.

When he regained consciousness, he was lying along the backseat of a luxuriously appointed car. He wondered if this was his chariot to heaven.

"Where? What?" he muttered.

"Oh good, you've come to. I couldn't leave you there out on the desert between nowhere and nowhere else. We're on the way to Santa Fe. But if you want me to leave you somewhere—"

"No, that's . . . that's fine," Rick murmured. "No place better than that. And . . . thanks."

"There's a water bottle on the floor of the car by your head," the man said in a rich baritone that exuded relief. "Just don't try to drink too much too fast. We'll be home in about four hours."

"Perfect," Rick muttered. And although his throat was parched, he drifted back off to sleep, dreaming of a knife cutting into his side. Feeling the pain of it; ruminating on the thought that one wasn't supposed to feel pain in a dream. Home, where was home for him? This was Rick's last thought before blacking out.

* * * *

"It's a bruised kidney," the doctor said. He was standing over Rick, who was tucked into a queen-sized bed in a rather large room that must have belonged to a young boy, one who had enjoyed athletics and Spider Man, although the Spider Man stuff mostly had drifted to the floor to be replaced by Rock band posters. The baseball and football trophies had obviously held their place of honor, though.

"It's on the mend already. I've seen to some other cuts and bruises that should have been taken care of a week or more ago, but are managing pretty well on their own now. You were in some sort of fist fight, were you? More than one maybe?"

"There was something like that, but I never had a chance to get into it."

"I see," the doctor said. "Ganged up on, were you?"

"One was enough."

"I'd say one was more than enough. A relative of Bill's, are you?"

"Bill?"

"Bill Grimes. This is his house. He called me in."

"No. He's just a good Samaritan," Rick answered. "Picked me up on the road outside Amarillo."

"Texas?" the doctor said with surprise.

"Yeah, I guess that's where Amarillo is. I've come from back East."

"Walked the whole way?"

"No. I was with some other guys."

"Guys with bruised fists?"

"No. But it's complicated."

"And now you are here in Bill Grimes's house." It was said like there was some meaning behind it.

"Yeah, I guess. I feel like I've slept forever."

"Bill said you got in late last night. He couldn't get me until this morning. I just got home this morning from Vegas."

The doctor looked at Rick for a long minute before he spoke again. He was putting medical stuff back in his bag and snapped it shut. "And you say you aren't a relative of Bill's?"

"No. He just stopped for me. I was down on the side of the highway."

"I see," the doctor said. That tone again of there being more than just seeing. But then he got up. At the door, he turned and said, "I'll look in at you again tomorrow. Another couple of days, and I think you can get out of bed without much pain."

Only when the doctor was gone did Rick realize he was naked under the sheets—and clean. He blushed, suddenly bringing to mind the only thing he had remembered about arriving here. They've driven up the slopes above old Santa Fe, and Rick had the impression of a long, low adobe building that went on forever. And then an elegant, open space of an entryway with a sunken living room below, beyond which, through a great expansion of glass, the twinkling lights of a low-lying city could be seen. The wall of windows was broken by a gigantic fireplace with a white bear-skin rug in front of it. A large dining area was off to the right upon entering the front door, opening to a similarly large kitchen beyond with gleaming black glass fronts on the appliances. To the left of the door was a corridor leading back to what must be a bedroom wing and an adobe-encased staircase leading to a second floor area above the bedroom wing.