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.
