Quebec City Film Date

"So, will we see you at lunch too?" Amanda VanClief, eyes batting in a perfectly made-up blonde model's face, still staying ahead of the elements at sixty, cooed to the young French-Brazilian waiter, Emil Alencar, aboard the

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. The river cruise ship was tied up to the Quebec City Corridor du Littoral. The other three women, appreciably older than Amanda was—purposely on Amanda's part—who were at her table in the ship's Coastal Dining Room were eagerly attentive to Emil's response.

The waiter, slender; dancer poised; self-confident; dark, sultry, and sexy; lustrous black hair pulled back in a tight bun except for one wisp dangling to a cheek, concentrated, as always, on the still-beautiful, elegantly dressed Amanda VanClief. She was his focus on this St. Lawrence Seaway cruise from Detroit to Quebec City and back to Montreal on this mid-October running of the

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just as he had become her focus. The work on the cruise ship was seasonal. For the winter months, he had either to retreat to Las Vegas to waiter there and dance in male reviews as work became available or find some well-heeled matron—or master—to cuddle with him over the winter. It didn't matter much to him if it were a woman or a man; Emil's focus was on Emil, and to Emil, sex was sex was sex if it provided comfort for him. Amanda VanClief, of Bocca Raton, Florida, booked in one of the two owners suites on the

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and who would be staying on for the return cruise to Detroit, fit the bill to a T.

Emil could see the signal from out of the corner of his eye from the jet-black, tall, and very thin headwaiter from the Congo, Jacques Odia, telling Emil that he was spending too much of his time at this table, but Emil ignored the gesture. The season's cruises were about completed and Emil had to be all about securing his off-season accommodations.

"No, Mrs. VanClief, I'm afraid I'm not on the lunch service today. I have free time to enjoy going into the city."

"We have a tour of the city ourselves today," Amanda cooed. "I'm sure I could arrange for you to accompany us. I'll bet you've stopped here in Quebec City many times this year and have yet to see it as a passenger on the cruise does." The other ladies at the table bobbed their gray heads and twittered their agreement.

No doubt she could arrange it, Emil thought. She obviously ruled the roast on the cruise ship, which was all to the good for his longer-term plans, but not, alas, for today. Saying yes, though, would, he thought, enable him to pin down a winter sheltering opportunity. Weekly romps in the bed, he thought, would be all that was required for a cushy Florida vacation—and the woman, though probably thirty-five years his senior, looked like she knew how to fuck still. She seemed savvy enough too, that he would have to be the one to suggest low, soft lighting while they did it. He'd lived with worse off-season situations in his last four years of waitering on cruise ships and Las Vegas.

"Alas, the crew members aren't permitted such delightful opportunities," he answered, with a tone of regret topped by a dazzling smile. "But I'll be right back here for the dinner service."

Amanda, who, along with her contrasting gaggle of temporary girlfriends would also be sure to be right back here at Emil's service table for dinner, simmered at his rich baritone voice and handsome, lean, dancer's Brazilian body beautiful, trembled at the prospect. Jacques Odia came close and touched Emil on the elbow, and Emil, getting the signal clearly now, gave the women a dazzling smile and moved off to spread his heavenly attention to other tables.

An hour later, after fully contributing to the breakfast cleanup under the watchful eye of the headwaiter, a duty Emil often pranced away from as beneath him, choosing instead to stand near the exit of the dining room and pattering with the guests, Emil returned to his shared interior cubbyhole of a cabin on Deck Two. He pulled the small box with his accumulated stash of cash from the bottom drawer of his nightstand. As he'd done so many times before, he reviewed his bank books and recounted his accumulation of earnings and tips to determine where he stood now in relationship to his eventual life's goal—to join his French mother, Monique, in running her small perfume and toiletries shop in the Saara shopping district of Rio de Janeiro when his youthful beauty to women and men alike had waned. She was barely making it now, even with him sending some of his tip money off to her now and again. His dream was to return someday with enough capital to upgrade their holdings and do so while he still had the looks and charisma to attract well-heeled customers. Of his Brazilian father, Emil thought little, as there was almost nothing he knew of the man, other than that he must have been a handsome devil. Emil too was handsome, but his looks were more androgynously reflective of his mother.

As he was counting his money, the first call reached him on his cellphone, a call he could not ignore and one that determined where he would initially go upon leaving the ship for his late morning and afternoon of port leave. As he was preparing to leave, the second call came in—the one he'd been chasing down for days, the one that would bring him profit that would get him significantly closer to a return to Rio de Janeiro. He responded, finding, luckily, that this arrangement was possible in the afternoon.

It would be a juggling of time and quite demanding on him to make both of these appointments, but it could not be helped. There was no end to the balls he had to keep in the air in the limited time he was at the peak of his desirability and hence the availability of opportunities.

* * * *

When Emil left the ship, he was so happy to be on land for a change that, rather than catch a bus to take him through the old section of the town by the port and up the hill to the center of the small, historical city, he walked. It wasn't just him being free to walk. Emil felt himself above those who would take public transportation, and with his exotic, almost feminine Brazilian looks and almost mincing steps, he felt as if the Canadians would all stare at him with admiration. At least he was at home with the predominant language, his mother having used French in their home, but he wasn't one to talk with strangers.

He walked northwest alongside the quay of the large city marina on the Quai St-André until he could cut west onto the Rue des Ramparts, following the line of the old city wall until he could cut over to the Parc de L'Artillerie—the Artillery Park on the high plateau of the old fortified city. His goal was the small Hotel Hippocampe on Rue McMahon, across the street from the park. This wasn't his first visit to the hotel. He'd been there just a few weeks earlier the last time the

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had docked in Quebec City.

No one at reception challenged him when he walked into the hotel and to the elevator. If he had been a woman, they would have, as this was a hotel exclusively for men—for gay men. But beyond that, Emil had been here before and he was good for business. He even was part of their business on occasion. When he was in town and one of their guests had a special itch that Emil could scratch, the hotel called him, and he and the hotel split the fee.

Emil knew where he was going. He'd been given the room number in the first call he'd gotten in the late morning. He took the elevator to the third floor and then to the designated room. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open and entered. Jacques Odia, the tall, thin, gaunt, jet-black Congolese headwaiter from the

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was standing by the bed, only in his briefs. As Emil entered the room and shut the door behind him, though, Jacques slipped the briefs off, revealing the semierection of nearly a foot of thick cock. Jacques motioned toward the double bed in the small room, and Emil immediately started to strip off his clothes.

Emil shuddered at the size of the cock on the Congolese man, which looked all the longer and thicker because of the slender build and tall height of the man. He had taken the shaft before, so he knew he could manage it, but he hadn't taken one as massive as this before his encounters with Jacques started. Jacques briefly held the two of them, naked, in an embrace and frotted their cocks together to engorge them fully. But then he said, "On the bed. You know how I like it." Emil whimpered, but he dutifully laid out on the bed on his back, his head hanging over the foot of the bed. He opened his mouth, unhinging his jaw, as the bulb of the head waiter's cock brushed along his lips. Emil fought the urge to gag, as Jacques slowly moved the mammoth shaft into his throat.

Emil didn't know if he'd let Jacques fuck him if Jacques didn't control Emil's job on the cruise ship. Probably yes, though. There was no satisfaction like there was to have been able to take a shaft as long as Jacques's was.

Emil pressed his fingers into the Congolese man's tight buttocks, as Jacques commenced the rhythm of the face fuck and leaned over the Brazilian's bronze, perfectly formed body and took Emil's cock in his mouth.

Jacques was able to dominate Emil like this—for the third time in his Quebec City hotel during this river cruising season—not because he paid Emil for the sex, as all of the young Brazilian's other sex partners in one way or the other did, but because he knew of the young man's cultivation of rich widows and widowers on the cruises to become their short-term boy toys and he was willing to exchange looking the other way for occasional services rendered. To Emil, sex was sex was sex. The gender didn't matter much, as long as they appropriately worshipped his body, and there was the pleasure in knowing that he could handle a monster shaft such as Jacques's and thus could confidently take what came in other circumstances.

Emil was fucked on the bed, carefully, but totally, some men being too small to accommodate Jacques without a great deal of pain and thrashing about—which, however, didn't stop Jacques from fucking them if he took a fancy to them. Emil lay on his back at the foot of the bed, his leg raised and spread, a bolster under the back to provide the best angle for the nearly foot-long, thick Congolese cock. Jacques hovered between the younger Brazilian's thighs, fisting Emil's calves to keep his legs spread and whispered, "Relax. Take it. Breathe. Give it to me," as Emil panted, clutched at the bedspread with widespread arms, arched his head back, and, moaning low, waited for the headwaiter to be fully saddled and for Emil to be fully open to the cock.

And then, after a long, torturous mounting, Jacques was in, held for a full moment, murmuring, "Good. Good. Open. Good," and when Emil had, Jacques began the slow pump, with Emil groaning and working to exercise the muscles of his channel walls, gripping at the thick cock and rippling his muscles over the shaft. Jacques was groaning now too, and, his panting matching Emil's and Emil crying out, "Yes! Yes! Fuck me!" the two entered the dance of the fuck, shutting the rest of the world out, and moving with each other to a gushing crescendo of giving and taking.

For a time now, this wasn't a matter of blackmail, something Emil had to do. The mounting of his ass was a painful experience, but once he was fully possessed, being fucked by what Jacques had inside him was glorious. For a brief time, Emil was in heaven. There was a sense of victory in being able to sheath a cock the size of Jacques's, and once Emil had opened to it—was beyond the pain and demands of the sheathing—and their pelvises were churning in concert, there was no better fuck, in Emil's mind, than this.

As Emil lay, panting, his legs now lowered to the floor at the foot of the bed, his hole dilated to the Congolese master's specifications, Jacques went to the nightstand, pulled a cigarette out of a pack, lit up, and moved to the window, which gave a good view of the Fairmont Le Château Frontenac, the iconic hotel dominating the old city at its highest point. While he smoked, he stroked his cock. Emil, still panting lightly, watched him from the bed, mesmerized by the incongruous size of the tall, gaunt man's genitals. Jacques had told him when they'd first coupled that Congolese men had, on average, the biggest dicks of the men of any other nationalities. Emil hadn't believed him—while having every reason to recognize that Jacques himself was a monster in that department—but since then Emil had researched the boast and found it to be true. Since then, every time he'd passed a tall, slender African man on the sidewalk, Emil had wondered if he were Congolese and super hung.

When Jacques worked himself up again, he slitted the window open, flicked his cigarette out into the void, and turned back toward the bed. Groaning, Emil turned over on the bed, came up on the mattress on his knees, and started crawling toward the headboard. He was only half up on the bed when Jacques overtook him, slipped an arm under his belly, and held him up on his knees. Whimpering, Emil reached up and grasped the headboard with his hands. He arched his head up and let out a little cry as Jacques mounted his hips, thrust inside him, and started taking him in long, deep slides.

An hour later, Emil was lying on his belly on the bed, still griping the headboard, whimpering low and panting lightly, as he watched the cruise ship headwaiter come out of the bathroom, having showered, and dried himself off and pulled his black trousers, white shirt, and black vest on, ready once more to return to duty on the

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.

"I booked the room only until 5:00 p.m.," he said as he stood by the door. "Feel free to stay until then. Don't be late for the supper service." And then, without so much as a "Thank you for the fucks," he left the room, and Emil was alone.

Emil had gone with men as well as women before signing on for the season on the

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, but he'd never been with a man as largely endowed as Jacques Odia. The headwaiter didn't really give the young Brazilian a choice of what Emil had to do at the Quebec City stop to "get along" on the cruises, and Emil always dreaded them before he arrived for these trysts. Once the monster cock was inside him and the two were moving together as one, though, Emil was lost to what the Congolese top had to offer and could do with it.

He couldn't stay until 5:00 p.m. There was the other assignation he had agreed to—the one that would add significantly to his nest egg as going with Jacques Odia did not. He wouldn't stay in the hotel room that long, but it was barely 1:00 p.m. now. He rolled over onto his back and bent and spread his legs, placing his feet flat on the mattress. Just a bit more time—to let his channel recover and readjust—although he knew that would be taxed again later in the afternoon—and then he'd shower, dress, and walk down to the lower, reconstructed old city at the base of the cliff the Château Frontenac, possibly the most-photographed hotel in the world, was perched on.

* * * *

Leaving the hotel across from the Artillery Park, Emil walked back down to the Rue du Petit Champlain old town area between the St. Lawrence River and the cliff rising to the Château Frontenac Hotel. Having been leveled by warfare and fire several times, the old town area had been reconstructed into an area of quaint shops, bars, and restaurants on narrow, stone streets. With purpose, Emil, entered the Rue du Petit Champlain and found the stone-façaded Pub des Borgias, which was tourist-atmospheric and specializing in serving a wide variety of designer beers. Emil entered the bar, which was made up of connecting vaulted-ceilinged stone chambers purposely reminiscent of a subterranean wine cellar.

He didn't penetrate far into the complex of rooms, though, and waved off the waiter offering to guide him to the bar. His eyes scanned the rooms he could see through wide-vaulted doors and came to rest on three men sitting at a table. The men already were zeroed in on him. One of them was cradling an industrial-sized video camera. The men had half-full glasses of beer in front of them on the table. They had recognized him from his photos on the Internet. He similarly recognized them. After a brief moment of locked eyes, Emil turned and exited the bar. Within a few steps, he turned and walked down the stone street running beside and behind the bar and approached the cliff wall, where a funicular railway ran up the side to the cliff to the platform above on which the Château Frontenac Hotel hovered beyond a wide band of promenade at the top of the cliff.

One of the men, the one with the video camera, chugged his beer and followed almost immediately on the heels of Emil from the building. He stood out on the street, across from the pub and recorded Emil's slow walk to the entrance to the funicular. Emil lingered at a store window while the cameraman chugged around him and positioned himself to be able to capture Emil entering the gondola. As he passed Emil, he muttered, "Good, good. You're doing it just right."

In the funicular, Emil stood at the side of the gondola, looking down, while and the cameraman followed the cab's rise to the top of the cliff. He turned his camera back to the entrance of the Pub des Borgias in time to catch the other two men exiting the pub and turning the corner to approach the funicular.

The two men were both similar and a contrast. They both were muscular and walked like athletes. There were stark contrasts, though. The older man was the taller of the two and more angular and wiry of body. He was the better dressed of the two and was at least in his late forties. The hair on his head was wavy, with graying at the temple. His face was Patrician handsome, and he moved with confidence. The younger of the two, bald, somewhat thuggish in face, and simian, his bulging arms swinging low from his squat, heavily muscular and hirsute body, was dressed in rougher clothes and moved in a swinging motion. He was no older than his late twenties or early thirties.

Those observing the two walking, obviously walking together, could be forgiven to wonder what they possibly could have in common. Maybe one was the bodyguard of the other?

The two men stopped at the entrance of the funicular, and the cameraman, himself in his mid-twenties, hippie-like, slender, wiry, with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and heavily tattooed, sauntered down the narrow street, passed them by, and caught the next car up the side of the cliff. When the two men took their car up, the cameraman was already on the promenade at the base of the Château Frontenac Hotel filming Emil as he moved up the promenade, found an empty bench facing the St. Lawrence River, and sank down in the middle of it. Then the cameraman turned the videorecorder toward the upper entrance of the funicular in time to catch his two colleagues appear there, walk together down to the end of the promenade, turn, and walk back and stand in front of the bench where Emil was sitting. After a moment of discussion between Emil and the two men, the men sat on the bench, as well, one on each side of Emil. Almost immediately, both men moved an arm to the back of the bench, behind Emil, the fingers of the hands of each resting on the tip of the young man's shoulder on either side.

The cameraman caught a period of discussion between the three men on the bench, not missing the touching the men flanking Emil were doing with the young men or the stroking fingers of the older man on the back of Emil's neck, stroking that Emil was permitting. Watchers of such films would take this as a signal that Emil was a rent-boy who the older man would buy and fuck.

The men were looking around as if to see if anyone was watching and then the photographer captured the older of the two men feeling Emil's crotch up and placing Emil's hand his crotch briefly. Little question was left that this was a sex hookup transaction.