Vampire Lacour's 2nd Coming

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-in-law 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.