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.
