Journey to Mirage

"You said you'd take me by the grocery store for what you wouldn't let me go with Mom to get yesterday."

Not realizing that his mother's boyfriend, Pete, was just going to let him off here to do the yard work himself, Rick couldn't help letting his confusion and irritation show.

"Got this job at the other side of town that just got called in, Rick. You can walk home from here after you mow this guy's lawn and trim those hedges over there—although neither job looks like it needs doing real bad. Tell me what you want from the grocery store and I'll pick it up for you when I'm finished cross town. This double pay will do us real well."

"No, thanks," Rick said. "I'll get it another time." It was nonsensical for him to reject the offer, and Rick knew it was. But it was the only rejection Rick was able to make toward this man who should be his father figure but who was banging both Rick's mother and Rick—with each one of them addicted to what Pete gave them.

Rick watched Pete drive off in the truck after Pete told him not to worry about payment for this job—that the guy had prepaid—and then he restarted the mower and tried to remember where he'd left off on the front yard. Pete had been right, the lawn didn't look like it needed to be mowed; Rick could hardly tell where he'd mowed already and where he hadn't.

He did a few more rows, which brought him back to where he was looking directly at the front porch—and then he stopped dead in his tracks, taking his hand off the throttle and letting the mower die.

"Take your T-shirt off and continue mowing," the man on the front porch said, a man Rick recognized and was surprised to see here. "There's $20 extra in it for you—money you don't have to report to anyone."

"Why?" Rick asked, both confused and belligerent.

Doug Groton, Rick's photography teacher, was standing at the top of the steps, at the edge of the covered porch. All he had on was a pair of short shorts. He was holding a camera in one hand and was leaning against a post and giving Rick a half-sneering smile.

"Because I want to photograph you in action. I want to get young muscle shots, the way they expand and contract when being worked. It' not like I haven't seen you undressed before."

"This yard doesn't really need to be mowed," Rick said, standing there dead in his tracks. "You're wasting your money."

"Not if I get some good photos out of this. You have no idea what they'll pay in galleries for interesting specialty shots. I supply a special gallery where photos like ones of you mowing a yard will sell like hotcakes."

"The yard doesn't really need mowed," Rick repeated doggedly.

"Then if you're interested in making another fifty and come inside after I've gotten these shots for a more private photo shoot, no one will know you weren't spending the whole time you're here mowing the yard, will they?"

"You didn't need your yard mowed, did you?"

"Bingo. But you should give me points for tracking down your friend's lawn service."

"He's not my friend," Rick said.

"Does he fuck you?"

Rick said nothing. So, Groton didn't really need for him to answer.

"Does he fuck you good? He looks like he's hung low and he looks strong enough to go all day. I'd like to get some specialty photos of him too. And of the two of you together—and not just mowing the yard."

Rick said nothing. There was nothing much he could say.

"Do you want the $20? It's not like men don't mow their lawns without their shirts on. What's the problem with that? I'll bet every kid mowing a lawn in Baltimore today is doing it shirtless. I'm surprised I even had to ask. And I won't bite—even if you want the fifty and come inside for an hour or two."

Rick did want the twenty—and the fifty too. And he was much too naïve to even think about his photos being sold in galleries like Groton was hinting they would be—or have any inkling how paltry what Groton was offering to pay him was against what the man could make with multiple copies of the photos.

Inside the house, in Groton's basement, Rick was awed at the professional equipment and staging area Groton had set up down there. Once again the velvet-covered dais, like in the night school building, but here there was a dark blue velvet drape behind it as well and a brocade chaise lounge on the dais.

"You want me to strip completely down? I don't know―"

"What's the problem? You've already done it for the photography class."

"But I was permitted to―"

"Don't be silly. I've already handled it. For fifty I'm going to want you to jack it off."

"While you are taking photos?"

"Yep. Both video and stills. But I'll tell you what, if you are that shy and will take just $30, I have a mask you can wear. Nobody you know will see these anyway. These will just be art shots. You've seen my photographs. You'll look good."

"I don't . . ." Rick just ran down, and Groton didn't fill in the blanks for him. Rick really wanted that extra $50.

But after nearly a minute, Groton said. "Hey, I won't even touch you—unless you want me to—and then I'd add money to the pot. I'll just take some pose-shot stills and then I'll let you do yourself while I video and take other stills."

"I don't know if I can."

"I'll help you. I'll lead you into some fantasy talk that will help you. It's not a problem. I've done this before. So, do you want me to bring out a mask?"

"No. I'll do the $50 shoot."

"Do you want me to help you get those shorts off."

"No. You said you wouldn't―"

"Well, the clock's ticking. So, if we're going to do this, you need to strip and get up on that couch."

For a half hour, as Rick posed this way and that, as Groton instructed, the only sounds in the room were the clicking of the camera and Groton's breathy expressions. As the shoot went on, Groton became increasingly hands on with setting the poses. But it happened so gradually that Rick didn't object until Groton was sitting beside him while Rick was stretched out on the chaise and had a hand encircling Rick's cock. Groton's gaze, however, was plastered to Rick's face through the camera lens in a close-up.

"Hey, you said you won't—"

"Another $20? These are going to be great shots—of your facial expressions as I'm masturbating you—except you can't come. We just want you worked up big for the video. It's no more than I did with you in my car. Just relax. I won't fuck you—unless you want me too. Just a hand job and not all the way. For an extra twenty bucks."

Rick sighed and tried to relax, which wasn't easy with the camera in his face and Groton muttering how nice he was and what a natural model he was.

"Now," Groton said at length, when he thought he'd gotten the length out of Rick's cock that he wanted, "for the video." He popped up and went behind one of three cameras and turned it on and made adjustments and then went to the other two in succession, so that they were all rolling film.

"What do you want me to―?"

"Just lay back and masturbate and respond to my questions—hold it as long as you can, but then go ahead and let it fly. And don't hold back on your reactions. Just like you were alone and thinking the things we're talking about. Natural, but be expressive too. Nothing phony, though. You're sweet and young and hung and cut and have a great face. That's what will sell. Unblemished berry-brown body. Worth top dollar."

Rick took his cock in his hand and started to slowly pump.

"You like being fucked by black men? Black men with muscles and long, thick cocks?"

"No," Rick answered quickly.

"Nothing phony, son. I can see your cock liked the question. I think we both know that big black stud nails you. And that gang leader Tony too. And how many in his gang? You like ethnic? You're half Hispanic too, aren't you?—the better aspects of Hispanic. There, see, you can get harder. Relax and let true arousal take you. That black guy you work with. He pins you to the floor with a big one, doesn't he?"

"Yes," given reluctantly, after a pause.

"And you want it despite some reservations. Right?"

Another pause and then a "yes."

"What is it? The blackness? The muscles? The big cock? The domination? The fact you shouldn't be doing it but know you want it?"

After some thought, "All of that, I guess."

"What are your fantasies of being taken?"

"My fantasies?"

"Yes. Like athletes. Black athletes. Muscles, big cocked . . . you continue with that, if it's something you dream about."

Rick didn't respond right away, but Groton could see that he was giving the question some thought, so he stopped crowding the young man. At length, Rick started talking in a dreamy voice.

"Just coming off the field. Hot and sweaty. On the bench in the locker room. Him tonguing the sweat off me."

"Yes, yes, go on. And then fucking you on the bench?"

"Yes, yes. But then moving on, on the field this time, jersey and shoulder pads still on but each of us naked below the waist. On the bleachers—nearly dark, but not quite, my ankles on his shoulders. Too much, almost too big, but he just . . . continues . . . ohh, sorry, you said to try to . . . but―"

"No, that's just fine," Groton said as he moved around shutting down cameras and turning off spot lights. "That was a very nice ejaculation. And now that you have the hang of it, start thinking of another scenario as you rebuild."

"Again? You didn't say―"

"I didn't say just once. But just one more this afternoon. Then I'll give you, what, $90 for today, isn't it? Then you can think it over and think of other fantasies of yours and I'll pay you $50 for each climaxed session then. How does that sound?"

"Just one more today, and you'll give me $90?"

"If you don't think about it too long, I'll make it $100 for today's work. How much do you make in two hours for mowing people's lawns—plus the manual labor under the hot sun?"

Twenty minutes later, Groton clicked the cameras and lights back on.

"Have you formed another fantasy."

"No, not completely. Something perhaps about running through a meadow—pursued."

"By one or several?"

Rick closed his eyes and contemplated.

"No, continue stroking, please. Always continue stroking through this. One or several. Several, right? That arouses you—more than one."

"Yes, several."

Now it was Groton's time to contemplate. But only for a moment. "Have you seen the movie

Deliverance

?"

"Yes."

"Gave you a hard on?" And then, without waiting for an answer, "You are being chased through a meadow."

"Before that," Rick now took over the story as he stroked, the mention of the movie

Deliverance

having influenced his thinking. "I'm driving down the line of mountains, wanting to cross them, and have turned into a road I think leads to a pass. But it doesn't, it just goes farther back in a fold in the mountains, into a small valley. I've made several turns and now don't know which way to go. I stop at a log cabin that has smoke coming from its chimney. It's beside a meadow. I get out of my car and go up to the door and knock."

"And the man who answers is nearly naked," Groton says. "You have caught him fucking another man—all men from the mountains—and there were other men watching."

"Yes, yes," Rick said. "Wait. I'll go on but I need to stroke slower, I'm about to―"

"Yes, don't stop, but you can fight for control."

After a brief moment, "I start to say I'm lost. But then I see the expressions on their faces and realize what I have walked into. I turn and begin running. One of them dashes out of the door—a big bruiser of a man—and cuts me off from reaching my car."

"Yes, yes. Go on."

"I turn toward the only avenue they give me—out through a gate in a fence running alongside the cabin."

"And into the meadow."

"Yes, into the meadow. I am running as fast as I can. But they are men of the mountain, used to the hard life. Barefoot, but all running faster than I am."

"But they don't catch you right away."

"No, they are teasing me, toying with me. Leaving an avenue that I think may allow me to escape. But closing the gap, circling around me, getting closer and closer."

"And then?"

"And then I drop in exhaustion and they are upon me like vultures. And tearing at my clothes. Laughing as they strip me naked. Tearing my clothes like I'll not need them again."

"And that terrifies you? That they don't care if you won't have any clothes after this? Like maybe you'll have no need for clothes?"

"Yes." It was a mere whisper.

"And are they saying anything to each other while they're doing this?"

Rick paused for a moment, but then he continued in a small, hoarse voice—obviously close to coming. "Yes, they are joking with each other on how each is going to take me. And . . . and . . ."

"Yes, and?"

"And the big bruiser is telling them that they need to go in order of size, smallest to largest, which would put him last. That they need to stretch me progressively."

"And they do take you in succession?"

"Yes."

"And you can feel them inside you?"

"No. I feel nothing like that. It's a dream. I have no feeling sense. But I know what they're doing. Their faces are close to mine. I can see in their eyes what they're doing to me."

"And the big bruiser is last and has a monster cock."

"Yes."

"You don't feel it, though?"

"No. But he makes me watch—down the line of my body—while he stuffs it in."

"But that's not all, is it Rick? You haven't come. There's more."

"Yes," Rick said in a faraway, breathy voice.

"More than one takes you together, both cocks churning inside you, don't they? . . . Ah, yes, that was a nice one. Even nicer than the first."

Groton moved around his cameras and lights, turning them off, and humming in self-satisfaction.

"There's a shower in through there. I'll have your money when you come back. You are a delightful model. All you have to do is decide you will do other sessions and we're in business."

* * * *

Rick was so deep in thought as he walked home from Groton's house, his fist wrapped around the five crisp twenty-dollar bills in his shorts pocket, that he didn't hear the low-rider 1959 Chevy Impala glide up beside him.

"Where ya' goin'? Come inside. We'll take you home."

Rick turned and backed up a step. "Can't be seen with you, Tony. You know that. I'm on probation. No hard feelings, but can't be seen with you."

"Ah, com'on, climb in. Nobody will see you. Course they might see you just standin' out there and talkin' with me. That's what could get you in trouble. Hidden in here won't get you in trouble. It's safer in the car than out."

"Tony, please . . ."

"Forgotten me already? Used to be all I had to do was tell you to spread your legs and you were all over me. Nope, you can start walkin' again"—which is what Rick had turned toward home and started to do—"but I'll ride right along beside you—for the whole neighborhood to see we're together again. Com'on, you need some of what I can give you again. Climb in. We'll let you loose far enough from home that no one will be the wiser."

"Please, Tony . . ."

But when the back door of the Chevy opened, Rick shrugged, looked around, and climbed aboard.

There were two Latinos he didn't know in the backseat, and as he entered, the one sitting beside the door he entered pulled him right on across and sat him down between them. They each had an arm around his shoulders and their free hands were feeling and unbuttoning and unzipping before the door was completely shut and the Chevy glided off into the street.

Tony turned in the front passenger seat and gave Rick a sharp look. "Don't do that, Rick. Just stop struggling. This here is Hosea 1 and over there is Hosea 2. That's all you need to know. They're suppliers of mine and I've been tellin' them what a sweet ass you have. Favor for favor. You just cooperate and maybe I don't cruise in your neighborhood so much. No one sees us together; no one tells your probation officer."

Then, as Rick settled down, Tony turned to the driver and said, "Find a nice quiet neighborhood. Not much activity, trees meetin' overhead. We'll open the sunroof and let Rick enjoy the view."

Rick didn't get to see the view, though, because as one of the Latinos lapped him, the other was on his knees and pulling Rick's mouth down to his cock. Then they reversed positions.

"Oh lookee here," Tony said from the front seat as they were driving back to Rick's neighborhood. "Where'd you get $100. Been whorin' down in the harbor?" He held Rick's shorts in one hand and the roll of twenties in the other.

"I earned that. Put it back," Rick said.

"Oh, snappish are we? I was thinkin' on taking you back to the garage for a little party, but I'll just take this instead. And you won't see me around for a while. That sound good to you?"

Rick mumbled that it did. There wasn't much else he could do. He was in despair, though. Not only was he out money he needed to get out of Baltimore, but he saw now that Tony wasn't finished with him—and would be a threat as long as Rick was under probation not to be seen with him.

And at the same time, he was frustrated, because all the time the two Latinos were fucking him, he was wishing that it was Tony—and, worse, Pete. He had thought he had escaped that addiction, but he realized now that he was wrong. He knew now that as soon as he went off probation he'd be right back in Tony's garage and bed—if Tony would have him. Now, more than before, getting out of Baltimore was his only out.

That night, as he lay in bed, listening to his mother's squeals and moans as the headboard of Pete and her bed just across the wall from Rick's own bed beat a steady rhythm against his head, Rick thought about how he was going to get more money. By the time the house had gone quiet, he realized that the only way short of stealing it was to go back to Groton's house for more sessions.

Late in the night, he was awakened by the groan of his mattress as Pete's heavy body lowered on his.

"Pete . . . no," Rick murmured as he felt the hand at the waistband of his sleeping shorts, pulling them down and off his legs. And then knees and heavily muscled thighs were pushing between his legs.

"You want it. You know you want it," Pete whispered in a gruff voice. "Give it to me. Open to me."

Thick fingers were invading Rick's channel, and he moaned and began to move his hips in involuntary surrender. This was another reason he had to leave Baltimore. Pete was right. Rick wanted him.

The light by his bed went on.

"Why—"

"I thought something special tonight. I want to watch it goin' in—and out and in again. And I want you to watch it too. You're gonna love watchin' it work."

Rick moaned.

Rick felt the grip of Pete's fists on his ankles, and he groaned has his legs were raised and hooked on Pete's tight-muscled shoulders.

And then as Pete's cock head fumbled at Rick's hole, Rick reached down with both hands and guided the cock home. Pete laughed a deep, throaty laugh and thrust home, as Rick reached up and grabbed for the brass rods of his headboard, trying to pull it toward him so it wouldn't bump against the wall in rhythm to Pete's thrusts and reverberate in his mother's room. Pete slapped Rick's legs off his shoulders and cupped his buttocks and lifted his pelvis so Rick could look down the line of his body and see the thick, three-quarters buried cock. Rick moaned again as he saw the shaft moving in and out of him.

Then he closed his eyes and fantasized about being on the bleachers on a football field in the twilight and a young, black, hung, muscled, athletic stud fucking him to ecstasy.