Journey to Mirage

Rick's mother schlepped into the kitchen in just a mint-green hospital smock and fluffy bedroom slippers. She took a searching, not altogether approving, look at her son, hunched over a cereal bowl, textbooks fanned out around him. Then she moved to the counter beside the refrigerator, took up a half-empty package of cigarettes she found there, and lit a cigarette with a match from a matchbook that had been lodged in the cigarette package. She turned, leaning the small of her back against the counter, and took a puff of the cigarette, holding the cigarette to her mouth with one hand, the arm of which she supported with her other hand on the elbow.

Rick looked up and scowled at her and then hunched back over his cereal bowl and the books. He wished she wouldn't walk around the house like that. The hospital smock was flimsy and it showed every contour of her curvy body, including, notably, the swell of her stomach and the protrusions of her bullet-sized nipples.

"Is that your homework you're doing?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Weren't you supposed to be doing that yesterday afternoon?"

"Yep, but I was out on a lawn job. Pete sent me. You can ask him, if you want."

"I wouldn't bother," she said, as she blew out a ring of smoke and took another drag on the cigarette. "He always takes up for you. Which is why I don't know why you're so down on him."

"Mom, I gotta study. There's a test today in the auto mechanics course."

"You should be studying the landscaping course more than that one. I've gotten reports you're lagging in that."

"I want to be an auto mechanic, Mom."

"So you can run around with Tony and his gang some more?"

"No, of course not. And please don't start ragging on me about that again."

"Sandra told me she saw you talkin' to Tony through his car window the other day. She said Pete saw you too, but when I asked him, he wouldn't say he saw you. You know that―"

Rick sat up in his chair then and snapped one of the books shut—obviously to show irritation.

"Mom, let's get out of Baltimore. Let's move out West someplace where it's entirely different. Dry and with clean air. How about someplace like Santa Fe? They got cars there I could work on and you can get a job in a hospital almost anywhere."

"And what would the judge who has you on probation say to that, son? You think he'd just let you waltz off out of his jurisdiction like that?"

"We can ask. My next appointment with my probation office is coming right up. It would be a clean break of the Baltimore and what's happened here. I think he'd agree that movin' on would be a good move. That's what they say they want me to do—make a clean break from the influences I got going on here."

"Autos needing fixed and patients needing taking care of are easy enough, Ricky. But what about Pete? What sort of landscaping do they need—grass cutting—in a desert?"

"That's one of the points, Mom. Pete wouldn't come. We'd make a clean break of it."

Maxine was seeing red now. She stood away from the counter and turned and viciously ground out her half-smoked cigarette in an ash tray nearly overflowing with earlier cigarettes, put her hands on her hips, and lashed out. "I've had about enough of that talk about Pete now. He's the best thing that's happened to this house since your father. You resent him because he's black—and younger than me. Don't you?"

"No, Mom, that's not any part of it. There's stuff you need to know—stuff I don't know why you don't know already."

"I don't want to hear any of your

stuff

about Pete. You just don't want to see me happy. And you resist accepting Pete no matter what he does for you—the lawn business and all—and how much attention he pays to you."

"Attention is right," Rick said through a snort. "About that fuckin' atten―"

"You just . . . shut . . . your mouth about―"

"Oh, Christ, I give up," Rick nearly shouted in frustration. Then he stood, sending his cereal bowl, still with an inch of milk at the bottom, and the spoon clattering to the floor, as he brutally gathered his textbooks and stumbled out of the kitchen.

He went to his room and dressed for his classes. He was expected at Groton's this afternoon. He'd barely have time to race through that test on auto mechanics and run over to Groton's to get there when he was expected.

The sounds from the kitchen arrested his race for the front door, however, as he passed from the bedrooms to the front of the house. He paused just long enough to see that Pete was in the kitchen now. He had Maxine backed up to the counter, with the flimsy hospital smock bunched up around her waist. Pete's hands were under the smock and obviously covering Maxine's pendulous breasts. And although he was wearing long, cotton sleeping pants, there was no mystery what was protruding from the fly and was buried half way up Maxine's cunt. Rick could actually see the root of the cock and a good inch and a half—disappearing and then appearing again. Just like what Pete had made him watch when Pete was fucking him. From the sounds Maxine was making, she was loving every stroke of it. Rick reddened up at the thought that he'd loved every stroke of it too.

In disgust and frustration, Rick slammed the front door behind him hard as he left the house and raced down the porch steps to the sidewalk. He'd have just about enough time to catch the bus headed for school before his landscaping class started.

* * * *

Rick's appointment with Douglas Groton had been set through Pete the day before.

"Mr. Groton over on Maple called and said his grass needed cut again and that he liked the way you did it last time and asked for you specifically to cut it tomorrow afternoon, about four."

Rick looked hard at Pete to determine if there was any question there why Groton had asked for him specifically, but Pete was busy watching an Orioles baseball game, so Groton's timing was better than he imagined it would be. Pete didn't want to leave the game anyway, so he didn't give the request much thought. He was too far into the six pack of beer he was guzzling to think too clearly about anything. Rick knew he'd be out like a light tonight and was unlikely to pay a visit to Rick's room.

Rick couldn't wait to get out the door of his auto mechanics test and down the block to the bus stop. Luckily the test had been a snap—even though he was almost hyperventilating through it in anticipation of getting to Groton's house by four. It was four days past the time he'd resolved that he wanted Groton's money and was prepared to do just about anything to get it. He'd also been thinking of scenarios that were arousing and discovered that there actually were a few he often latched into.

Groton was waiting for him on the porch of his house. Rick noticed that, unlike his last visit, the yard actually needed to be mowed this time.

"You been thinking about what I offered?" Groton said as he rose out of a rattan chair on the porch and moved into the sunshine at the edge of steps.

"Yes, I have, Mr. Groton."

"And?"

"I'm interested. And I've been thinking of stories."

"OK, good. The mower is around by the garage. Mow the yard, please."

"Mow the yard?"

"Yes."

"You want me to strip off my T or anything?"

"No, I'd like you to leave it on today. I won't be taking photos out here. Want to watch you get good and sweaty, though."

"It's sure the day for it. I'll bet it hits 100."

"I hope so. Don't dawdle in getting it mowed, though. I have plans for your time. A hundred for two hours of work OK with you?"

"Yeah. I guess. To do what, though, in addition to mowing the yard?"

"Anything I want. Without complaint. I finish satisfied and there will be an additional fifty in it for you. OK?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so." Rick really needed the money.

It was a scorcher and both Rick's T and his shorts were soaked flat against his body when he was done. Groton had let him have water, but he'd driven him to mow fast and not take a breather break. Rick was panting when he finished.

"I changed my mind about photos," Groton said as he came down off the porch with a camera when Rick had put the mower away and came back into the front yard.

"Stand there, please. Chest out and, no, don't try covering your basket."

Groton circled Rick, clicking off photos. Then he started climbing the steps again. "Come into the house, please."

"Should I towel off or something before I walk through your house?" Rick asked.

"Not a chance. Just come in and go on down to the basement."

Rick did a double take when he entered the photo studio. He just stood there and gaped, while Groton went around adjusting his three video cameras and turning on spotlights.

"What's this? It looks like a locker room," Rick murmured. A rough wood bench sat on the dais backdropped by a semicircle of lockers like you'd find in a sports locker room.

"Yes, that's the effect I was after. Here, strip off the shorts and jock, but leave the T on. And pull these on."

Rick took the old-style hip pads and flimsy football pants Groton handed him. "Uh, what―?"

"No time for questions. And here, let me introduce you to Spike. He's going to help with this photo shoot."

Rick's eyes snapped around to take in a hulking black guy who was already outfitted in old-style hip pads half-covered by tight-fitting football pants—and nothing else. His ebony muscles piled up over a thick, but by no means fat, armor plate of washboard abs. His biceps alone looked thicker than Rick's waist. He had a strong-featured face and dreadlocks that dipped down to his shoulders. He was giving Rick an "I could eat you all up" look.

"Go ahead. Dress," Groton commanded.

"I don't under―"

"Your fantasy. The last time you were here, Rick. The locker room fantasy. There's a method to this. You do this right and I'll tell you what it is. It would mean good money for you."

"But this guy? What―?"

"Spike's going to help you play out that fantasy, Rick. He's going to fuck you silly, just like in your fantasy. And I'm going to get it on film. Consider this your screen test for big bucks. Or do you want to take the forty for mowing the yard and go home now?"

"Fuck me? I can't—"

"Are you going to go back to pretending he'd be the first big black cock inside you? You want the money? We don't have all day. Strip."

Rick only hesitated briefly before he stripped off his shorts and jock and tied the old-fashioned football hip pads around his waist with trembling hands and pulled on the pants, which turned out to be made of some sort of flimsy, silky material.

Then Groton got behind the cameras, made a few adjustments, and said. "OK, Spike, do it like I told you to. Rick, you can struggle a bit at first if you want, but the camera wants to see you surrender and then want it. OK, go."

Rick didn't have to do anything. Spike merely walked over to him, put an arm around his shoulder and guided him onto the lighted set like they were returning to the locker room from football practice. He stopped between the bench and the camera and pulled Rick's sweaty T over his head and lowered his thick lips to Rick's chest and began licking the sweat off him. They were more or less joined at the hip, showing three quarters of their bodies to the camera. Spike was encircling Rick's waist with one arm, and Rick arched back to give the camera a good shot of Spike licking Rick's nipples and up into his pits in turn. And then Spike started working his tongue down Rick's chest and over his belly. With his free hand, he ripped open the tight football pants at the waist and slowly unlaced the hip pads covering Rick's pelvis. By the time his lips reached Rick's lower belly, Spike was on his knees and his hand was drawing out Rick's cock. Spike sucked briefly on Rick's freed balls before closing his lips over Rick's cock and beginning to give him suck.

Rick trembled in Spike's controlling embrace and licked his lips and moaned and groaned in response to the working of Spike's mouth and tongue. This indeed was one of his fantasies and he just gave in to it.

At length, Spike stood and guided Rick over to the bench, pushing the young man down into a seated position straddling one end of the bench. Spike, also straddling the bench, stood in front of Rick and slowly split his tight pants to below his crotch, fanned out the two sides, and languidly unlaced his hip pads and let his heavy cock and balls drop between his legs. Rick opened his eyes wide—caught neatly by the cameras—and moaned, as Spike palmed the back of Rick's head with his hands and guided Rick's mouth to his cock.

When he was ready, Spike stood away from the bench, turned Rick over, belly to bench, still straddling the bench. He went down to his knees at the end of the bench, palmed Rick's butt cheeks with his two hands, and separated the two orbs, showing Rick's now-pulsing hole.

Rick groaned as Spike blew on the hole and then he began to pant and moan as Spike's mouth and tongue went to the entrance. After a few minutes, Spike was standing and moving over Rick and presenting his monstrously thick cock head to Rick's hole and slowly feeding it inside and Rick was crying out and writhing under him—all caught beautifully by the cameras.

The fuck was all that Rick had fantasized about. He gripped the legs of the bench hard, and, with his pelvis slightly raised and presented to the best angle for Spike's pumping cock, Rick's own cock head rubbed across the rough wood of the bench and he came a long time before Spike was finished. At Groton's direction, he had turned his head to the side, looking into the cameras, so they could catch every nuance of what Spike's cock was doing inside him.

And then Groton was standing by the bench, tugging at Spike, who pulled out of Rick and stepped to the side. The cameras were still rolling. Groton turned an exhausted Rick over on his back, still straddling the bench with his quivering legs.

Groton stood over Rick at the end of the bench, his own legs straddling the end, and he smiled down at Rick as he unzipped his pants and flared the sides out. Rick watched in awe as the photographer pulled out the longest cock he'd ever seen. It wasn't thick, but it was a good nine inches.

"Remember, I said anything I wanted you to do during the session," Groton said, that smile nearly a sneer.

"I don't know. It's so . . . ohhh, holy shit. Ohhhhh."

Groton entered him forever and ever, way up inside Rick's channel, while he held Rick's leg away from the cameras up and out and the other leg at a down and out angle, so that the cameras got the full view of him entering, entering, entering. Rick arched his back, trying to get as much of a straight angle up into him that he could give that pole of a cock. And groaned and moaned.

"This is one of

my

fantasies, Rick," Groton whispered, "And you are a natural at this movie stuff. You take it like a pro, but also like an innocent. You're going to be my million-dollar baby." Then he laughed and began a long-stroking pumping that had Rick panting and shuddering with each deep stroke.

"It doesn't have to be black, does it, Rick?" Groton muttered. "You want any cock that will do you good."

Rick just moaned and moved his hips in rhythm to Groton's stroking.

And the cameras whirred away.

* * * *

"I'm in a bathtub, leaning back at one end. Facing me, leaning against the opposite end, is another man."

"Young or old? No, don't open your eyes. And move your hand away. Let me do it."

Rick relinquished the fisting of his cock to Groton's control.

"Neither. But he is beefy. And with a thick matting of hair on his chest and his arms. The rest is under the water. But I keep my eyes on the wet, curly black hair. And he has a tight, curly black beard too—and black hair falling down to his neck."

"Is he handsome?"

"Not really. There's a scar slicing down from his hairline to where his beard starts on his cheek. But it's a strong face."

It was a week later than the locker room sequence, and Rick had been called to mow Douglas Groton's yard again. They were upstairs, on Groton's bed. Both naked. Both stretched out on their backs, but Rick overlapping one of Groton's legs and an arm. Groton's free hand was encircling Rick's cock and slowly pumping. Two cameras, focused on the bed, were whirring at different angles in the room. This time the lighting was more subtle—Groton was working with shadows. But there was a spotlight beamed on Rick's pelvis, making sure that Groton's masturbation of Rick was clearly seen by the cameras.

"That's all? You're just sitting there, in a tub of bath water, facing each other?"

"No, that's not all."

"What's going on below the waterline, Rick?"

"He is sitting on the bottom of the tub."

"And what are you sitting on, Rick?"

"His . . . his . . ."

"You're sitting on his cock, aren't you? Your butt cheeks are on his thighs, right?"

"Yes. Silky thighs. Hairy there, too, but felt more than seen. He is in me thick and deep. Rocking back and forth, making small waves in the water."

"Where are his hands?"

"One is around my waist, palming the small of my back, holding me to him."

"And where is the other?"

"He has his middle finger inside me—in my channel. Rubbing against my prostate, running along the top of the cock he has inside me."

"And how does that make you feel?"

"My balls ache. He keeps at it. I've come at least twice. The water is cloudy from my cum."

"You haven't asked him to stop?"

"No, I never want him to stop."

"And where are your hands?"

"One below us, on his balls. The other working myself. Oh, god, Doug. I think . . . I'm . . . going to come."

"Of course you are." Groton moved down Rick's body. His mouth now covering Rick's cock and his hand going to Rick's hole, the middle finger searching out his prostate and rubbing. Until, with a shudder and a lurch, Rick came.

Groton held Rick close in an embrace while Rick's ragged breathing became more regular. Rick liked this as much as anything Groton did to and for him. Pete always pulled out immediately after getting his own pleasure and was gone, leaving Rick spun out and grasping for some sign of affection in the act.

After Groton felt Rick relax and close to sleep, he spoke. "Tell me, Rick—truthfully—why you need this money I'm paying you. I didn't see enthusiasm to my advances. What I saw was a need. And I think it was a need for funds."

"I need to get out of Baltimore."

"But you're on probation."

"That's one of the main reasons I need to leave. I'll lose the probation if I associate with the gang that got me into trouble in the first place. And they won't leave me alone. They think it's funny to keep me on the edge."

"And that's all."

A pause and then a somewhat tentative, "Yes."

"That's not really all, is it?"

"No."

"Have anything to do with that big black stud you work with and who fucks you?"

"Yes. But I don't want to get any farther into that."

"I think I see part of it. You weren't inexperienced when you came to me. But there was still confusion and hesitancy. It's not all willingness with him, is it?"

"I can't say any more on that; it's complicated."

"That's OK. Just knowing what you're trying to do is enough. I'm going out to Arizona, Rick. I want you to come with me."

"Why?"

"I said it in the photography class you took. I'm making a movie. There's a gay erotica film festival out in a town beyond Phoenix—a town named Mirage. I intend to enter a film and win. I want you there with me."

"Again, why? I don't understand. What do you need me for?"

"The film's already started, Rick. You're the star of the film."

"Me? I don't know anything about acting."

"And that's the glory of it. You're a natural, such a good looker, and so expressive—and when you take cock, the men watching you want you too. They turn to jelly."