Journey to Mirage

Mr. Crosby, Rick's probation officer, was busily moving papers from one stack to another—and then, seemingly back again—and even took two calls and didn't hurry disconnecting them, as Rick sat across the desk from him and fidgeted. Rick's schedule was tight. He was expected at Groton's house within the hour.

The appointment wasn't to mow the yard this time; they were past that fake excuse stage now. Once there, Rick knew he'd be asked about going on the filming road trip with Groton—and he was afraid Groton would find someone else to go with him before Rick could answer. Rick knew that meant he'd essentially made up his mind about that—or he wouldn't care if Groton had signed on someone else instead. But he was still telling himself he hadn't made up his mind.

And part of Rick's problem in making up his mind was sitting across from him, seemingly ignoring him, even though this was Rick's scheduled time to meet with him.

At last Crosby looked across his desk at Rick, over the top of his eyeglasses, and gave Rick a half smile. "Been keeping yourself clean, Rick?"

"Yes. I never did do any drugs."

"So, you won't care if you're asked to leave a sample on your way out, will you?"

"No, not at all."

"Good. There's a cup on the desk there. You know what to do and where to leave it. And check in before you contribute. You'll need to be watched while you're doing it. You know the drill."

"No problem," Rick said with almost a challenging voice. This wasn't a problem with him. This he could do without hesitation.

"Been keeping clean otherwise? Following all of the requirements of your probation?"

"Yes," given with a far less-challenging tone. "To the extent I can."

"I'm glad you put it that way, Rick. You always must be honest with me. I'm on your side here, you know."

"Yes, I know," Rick said, trying to say that convincingly, knowing it was in his best interests to get on Crosby's good side and stay there as long as possible. Still, he didn't believe for a moment that Crosby was on his side.

"And you know why I said I'm glad you put it that way?"

"Yeah, maybe." Rick hated this dancing around. What did Crosby know?

"Because people see things and tend to report them to us, especially folks who have relatives in the system and want to ease the pressure on them."

"It's not something I can help," Rick said, deciding that whether or not Crosby was bluffing, Tony's teasing wasn't something Rick could handle alone anyway. "Sometimes Tony drives by me on purpose—it's not me jumping my probation. I can't stop him doing that."

"I told you I was on your side, Rick. And I am. It helps that you're honest with me. I'll certainly make notes on this that can be used in your favor if conditions warrant. But that isn't all, is it, Rick? There's something else involved here. I've been doing this for a long time, and I sense your problems run deeper than just Tony and his gang."

There indeed were deeper issues, but when Rick responded, it was as if he didn't hear that question. And Crosby didn't pursue the point. "What I want—what I think has to happen—is me getting out of town. But I'm stuck here by the courts. You guys say I can't do what I don't really have any control over. You got me in a vice."

"I understand, Rick. I can see how it is. But then, to be honest, it was you who got yourself in this position, wasn't it? It wasn't the system."

"But you can't get the probation lifted so I can leave? I've already talked to my mom about her and me going out West somewhere. I don't want to run with any gangs, let alone Tony's. All I want to do is fix cars and keep to myself."

"I understand your position, Rick. But, no, sorry, the probation can't be lifted. But, of course, if I write up the problems you have being here, and you should decide to leave, I'd certainly go to bat for you with the judge if it came to that—as long as you didn't get into any trouble where you went."

Rick looked into Mr. Crosby's eyes, and the probation officer looked back into Rick's eyes with a steady, not unfriendly gaze, and Rick suddenly felt that maybe, just maybe, Mr. Crosby understood after all and really was on his side.

He had been prepared to finger Pete if he had to, but maybe what Tony was doing was enough.

* * * *

"It turns out I don't need you this afternoon, Rick. Something I've been working on has worked out and I need you at about 7:00. I trust you can make it then. It's important."

"Yeah, I guess I can. I can tell my mom I'm going to my friend Eddie's to study for the landscaping class. She'll probably be pleased about that—that I'm studying the landscaping thing. And she won't be home then anyway. She'll be working a swing evening shift at the hospital."

Rick was thinking as much about not being home alone with Pete as he was with whatever lie he had to spin to be available for Groton. And he was ready to jump at the chance not to be home then.

"What's up for the evening, though?" he asked.

"It's Friday night. Northwestern is playing Patterson at Patterson."

"I don't understand."

"You will when we get to Northwestern. I'll pick you up at 7:00, down by the corner where I first jacked you off—you don't forget where that is, do you?"

"No," Rick answered, although he wished Groton wasn't so blatant about all of this. And he hadn't actually jacked him off that night. He'd stopped short of that—and thrown Rick all hot and bothered into Pete's arms.

At 7:00 Rick was standing in the designated spot, under the burnt-out street light, when Groton rolled up in his old Saab. Spike was in the backseat.

"Get in. In the back with Spike," Groton called across the passenger seat and through the open window.

Spike was dressed in tight football pants and the old-style hip guards again. He was wearing a cut-off T above that, showing off his magnificent ebony abs. He started pawing Rick immediately after the car pulled away from the curb.

"Hey, don't you have nothin' but sex on the brain?" Rick asked as Spike's palm on his basket forced him to spread his legs.

"Nope. But I don't need anything else. With what I got between my legs, I don't need nothin' else. Gotta get in the mood here. Doug says it will save set-up time."

In short order they were pulling up to a rambling group of school buildings and driving around to the back, where Northwestern High School's football field was located. The field—in fact the whole school grounds—appeared to be deserted, although on one side lights were on, shining down on the field and up into the bleachers on that side.

"Everybody out," Groton said cheerily, as he popped the trunk from inside the passenger compartment. "You'll find the same thing Spike's wearing in the trunk, Rick. Change into that, please. And a football. You know how to throw a football, don't you? Bring that out onto the field when you come, please. Spike and the other guys will help me set up the cameras and lights."

The other guys? Still in confusion, Rick asked, "This is Northwestern, according to the sign out front. But what was that about Patterson?"

"Northwestern and Patterson have a big football game tonight," Groton answered in a tone that indicated Rick was being dense, as he turned from where he had already strode toward the field. "That means this field is deserted and available—and everyone from Northwestern who isn't in bed sick is now over at Patterson. I contacted the caretaker here, who has the right needs, and here we are. It was one of your fantasies, Rick. I want to get as much of this film in the can before I start out for Mirage as possible. Now get those football togs on, please. I don't know how much time we can count on out here before we're noticed."

When Rick had changed, he took up the football and walked toward the open gate in the chain-link fence that surrounded the stadium. As he got closer, he saw that there was a tall, meaty Hispanic guy, maybe in his early forties, standing by the open gate and leering at him as he approached.

But Rick looked farther into the field, where he saw Groton and two other guys working with standing floodlights and hand-held video cameras. There had been two other cars parked near where Groton had pulled the Saab up, and Rick now understood that these belonged to the caretaker and the other cameramen.

Spike was standing, looking all black and majestic on about the forty-yard line and a quarter of the way into the side of the field.

"Get as far away from Spike as you feel comfortable, Rick. Then I want you two to throw a few passes to each other. Then, when Spike's ready, I want him to have the ball and you to crouch down into a defensive position. Spike will rush you with the ball and you try to stop him. Spike will take it from there."

"Spike will take what from there?"

"Your fantasy, Rick. This was your fantasy."

After Spike and Rick had wrestled for the ball a bit on the field, Spike manhandled—more carrying than pushing along—Rick up four rows in the bleachers. He pushed Rick down on his butt on a bleacher seat, with his back arched behind him onto the edge of the next bleacher seat above. Then, Spike, standing on the bleacher foot rail, straddling Rick's knees, ripped open his own football pants at the crotch and slowly untied his hip pads. He went down on his knees on the bleacher seat on either side of Rick's thighs and fed his cock into Rick's mouth, as the cameras clicked and whirred at various angles around him.

After a few minutes of this, Spike was ripping Rick's half T and football pants off and tearing at the laces of Rick's hip pads. Putting his big paws under Rick's thighs, he lifted and spread them, while Rick scrabbled at the wood of the bleacher seats to get whatever purchase he could to hold himself steady—and Spike slowly fed his big, black cock inside Rick's channel and fucked him in fulfillment of the bleacher fantasy Rick had spun out for Douglas Groton a few weeks earlier.

All of this was accompanied by Spike's grunts and Rick's moans and groans and the clicking and whirring of the cameras—and the buzzing of mosquitoes and other critters of the night committing suicide in the floodlights.

When both Rick and Spike had graphically come, Spike left Rick spread-eagled and quivering on the bleachers. Groton and his men took a few last clips of Rick in post-coital dishabille, and then they started breaking down their equipment.

"You're needed over there under that light on the field house behind those goal posts, Rick," Groton said. "Near the open gate."

"Uh, these pants are shredded," Rick objected. "You got something—"

"No need to bother with that yet. Just come down from the stands."

The lights of the stadium were starting to go off, and as Rick followed Groton down the bleachers to the side of the field, he could see that the caretaker was under the light by the field house and throwing switches on the floodlights.

"Over to that guy?" Rick asked.

"Yes. And take good care of him, Rick. It all happened quickly. We were lucky to be able to set it up. And I agreed to give you to him for a half hour. We'll be waiting in the car."

As Groton and Spike were loading the Saab, the other camera men already having driven off, Rick was going down on his knees in front of the Hispanic caretaker, whose fly was already open with his erect dong out in the air wanting attention. The caretaker buried his fingers in the hair at the back of Rick's head and pulled the young man's face onto his cock.

Groton turned and looked toward the field as he was arranging the cameras in the trunk of the car. He smiled and took a camera back out of the trunk and turned and walked toward the field house. He got there in time to watch the caretaker push Rick down on all fours on the grass under the goal post and mount him from behind. Having only a half hour, he was working faster than Rick could really prepare himself for what was to come.

Later, as they were driving back into Rick's neighborhood in downtown Baltimore, Groton captured Rick's gaze in the rearview mirror and said. "It's time to decide. I want to leave tomorrow. And I want you in bed with me tonight if you're going on this journey. What is it to be, Rick?"

"I'll go," Rick said.

"Good. I'll drop you off and be quick about putting whatever you need in a duffle bag and come back to the drop off place. I wouldn't suggest that you tell that Pete of yours you are going, though. I don't think he wants you to leave Baltimore, and I don't have room for him in the Saab." Groton chuckled at his own joke.

Rick had already decided he was going. He'd already written and posted a letter to his probation officer saying he was going and why—including the part about Pete. He'd ended by saying the judge could, of course, come after him if he wanted, but that Rick pledged they would all be better off with him out of town. The letter was really to give Crosby some cover. Crosby had been the first—and maybe only—person in this world who had shown any sign of really thinking about what was best for Rick.

* * * *

Later that night, Rick lay on the bed, listening to Groton in the bathroom preparing for the night. As he lay there, he thought about Groton's cock—the longest he'd ever had in him, and wondering if he'd ever taken it all. Spike had managed some depth, but with Spike, it was mostly the stretching of the channel. The Hispanic at the football field had a small cock, but it had had a crook in it that rubbed the head across Rick's prostate, and Rick wasn't sure that the sensation of that wasn't more satisfying than what Spike provided.

But Pete had it all. So, why was Rick running from Pete? Because of his mother, of course. He didn't resent her having a fulfilling sex life. But Pete was fucking her only to get to Rick. Somehow Rick knew that was a fundamental truth. And with Rick gone, that relationship would go one of two ways. Pete would pay complete attention to Maxine, or Pete would leave her. In either case, Rick thought this would be better—more honest—than what was going on now.

Rick grimaced in disgust then, though. What had he become? Comparing the satisfaction of cocks inside him. He'd become a slut. He was addicted. He'd smugly told Crosby he didn't take drugs. But, in reality, he did now. His drug had become the cock. Another man's cock. Any man's cock. He should have been disgusted by the Hispanic caretaker. He wasn't. It had been a little thrilling to know a man—any man—was lost to him like that.

Rick briefly thought about how he could change this, how he could pull away from this behavior. And then he began thinking of what must be nine inches that Groton was swinging—and wondering again if all of it had been inside him. He took the pillows from under his head and moved them to the small of his back, elevating his naked pelvis and spreading his legs wide—wondering if that would provide the angle for him to feel Groton's balls nestled against his crotch, giving purchase for Groton to get it all in him.

The bathroom door opened, and Groton came out and looked at Rick's position and laughed.

"That's very pretty, Rick. But the caretaker taking you made me horny. I liked the image of you being taken like a dog. On the rug please, on all fours."

Groton was unrolling the longest condom Rick had ever seen onto his cock, not getting anywhere close to the root with it.

Rick moved off the bed and onto his hands and knees on the carpet. He felt Groton's knees at his hips and Groton's hands on his waist as he hovered over him. Then he felt the bulb at his hole and he held his breath, determined to hold it as long as it took Groton to possess him. But the entry went on forever—for at least three breaths held to their limit. Rick felt what he was consciously waiting, hoping, to feel—the moist heat of Groton's balls nestled up into his crotch at the edge of the opening to his channel. And then Rick began to groan and pant as, at first, slowly oooout and iiiiinnn it went to the full length of Groton's shaft. And then more and more rapidly, and if it could possibly be true, even deeper.

Until, his hand working his own cock, Rick came in two thunderous spurts, his thighs turned to jelly, and, Groton, laughing and still pumping, followed him down, prone on the carpet.

Later, stretched alongside each other on the bed, Groton moving his hands over Rick's still-panting body, Groton put his mouth to Rick's ear and whispered, "That was nice. We'll do that again soon. Another fantasy. What else do you fantasize about?"

"I don't think I can say."

"Why not."

Rick thought for a moment, sighing, because Groton's hand had gone to his cock and was beginning to slowly masturbate him.

"I'm afraid."

"You're afraid of your fantasies coming true?"

"Maybe. I guess so. Yes. It's one thing to imagine it—it's quite something else to experience it."

"The intensity of it?"

"Yes. That certainly."

"Tonight's fantasy fulfillment. Tell me that wasn't all you wanted to be."

Rick pondered for a few minutes. "I can't tell you it wasn't good for me."

"Don't waste this opportunity to live your fantasies then. Think of your most fearful dream, Rick. What is it? Being in a den of lions and tigers?"

"No, I don't think so. Something strange I think. Clowns. Being in a swirl of clowns. Their happy faces turning to sad and then anger. Masked people. Hiding themselves, their true intent."

"Vampires too?"

"Yes, maybe those too."

"You know in some versions vampires are said to have serpent tongues in the heads of their dicks and to have dicks that just keep expanding and expanding inside you. Think of that. And their mouths, when they take your cock in their mouths they suck you all the way down, balls and all, and their tongues piston your cock in rapid motion while they roll your balls in their cheeks. And those tongues in their mouths? Those are like snakes tongues too. You know your piss slit? Those tongues snaking right in there, licking up into the inside of your balls and—"

"Oh . . . god . . . I'm going to come."

"Yes you are," Groton said as he quickly moved his face down to Rick's crotch and swallowed both of his balls into his mouth, moving them to inside his cheeks and rolling them with his tongue as he pumped Rick's cock rapidly to ejaculation with a tight fist.

All the time video cameras at the corners of the ceiling whirred away.