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The bus trip was a good nine hours, with all the stops in small towns, between Albuquerque and Phoenix, and it had been a couple of hours after dark before Rick had gotten to the bus station and boarded one headed for Phoenix. The quiet hours of blackness, punctuated by the lights of cars and towns passed bouncing off the ceiling and seat tops of the nearly empty vehicle, gave him much time, between fitful snoozes, to contemplate where he was going.



He was going to Mirage, it would seem, on a much-interrupted trip there. And he was almost there. But what would be there when he reached it? Was it what he had seen off in the distance there when he’d started out from Baltimore? Was it the ultimate release and escape for him that he then had thought it would be, that it must be to give his life any purpose? No, certainly not. He was as much a prisoner now to other men as he had been to Tony and Pete—and then Douglas Groton—back in Baltimore.



The oasis out there in the desert, his destination, the Arizona town of Mirage, had changed in character and magnitude as he had approached it. If anything, it had become more hopeless and sinister the closer he got. And it had become smaller, less glorified and inviting.



And was it really there at all?



So, why was he on a bus headed for Phoenix and, ultimately, Mirage? So near, and yet it seemed as far away now as it had ever been.



There were only two things he knew how to do: fix cars and entertain men with sex. He wanted to do the first, but it would be hard to get a job at that in Phoenix. Worse than not having any references, it wouldn’t take much effort to find that he’d worked at Miller’s as close as Albuquerque. What would they say about him there when asked? That this Rick guy just didn’t show up for work one day? Would Luis have something more damning to say to punish him? Or would Jess take the information and come for him—folding Rick right back into a prison, no matter how pleasant Jess’s cocking was?



No, even to be able to be fixing cars now, Rick needed a new life—and time. Only money brought that. And the only way Rick could think of to get the money he’d need—to live, let alone follow any dream—was to use his other skills for a while.



Rick would see how much money Groton would actually give him and how soon he could get out of the business altogether. Not out of the lifestyle, because he couldn’t deny his needs, but out of the business at least.



Beyond that, though, just as the mirage out there had reformed and not come significantly closer, Rick had grown and changed too. He would take more control. He wouldn’t be a prisoner to anyone again like he had been before. And he had never been completely passive to begin with. He had escaped what was both the physical and mental pull of a series of dominant men: Tony, Pete, Groton, Bill Grimes, and Jess Miller. Rick would go back with Groton—and truth be known, that long, long cock of his was something that Rick looked forward to—but now the footing would be more equal.



Rick would make films with him, but if Groton thought it would be rough, leather films, he was sadly mistaken. Rick had already had that offer in Santa Fe, and had walked away from it.



It was nearly dawn when Rick’s bus pulled into Phoenix. He found the nearest hotel that looked like he could afford it and wasn’t a flop house—he was not in the mood for drama or being hit on—and slept into the afternoon. Then he found out which city bus would take him to Sky Harbor airport.



His trip to the airport was about as frustrating to him as anything he had experienced on the long road from Baltimore. He was trying to rent a car—a cheap one, if he could. He had no idea where Mirage was in relation to Phoenix. Just in the same state. But he figured he’d need a car to get there. There had been no destination under “M” on the board in the bus station other than Mesa.



He probably should have called instead of showing up in person, although, ultimately that was unlikely to work either. The attendants at the car rental kiosks were all smiles until they saw how young he looked—and that he had a Maryland driver’s license that looked fake to them, even though it wasn’t. The clincher, though, was that he didn’t have a credit card. He wanted to pay in cash. Suddenly there were no rental cars available at Sky Harbor.



He could have slit his wrists right there until one hopeful rental associate said, “Hey, I heard you say you wanted to drop the car off in Mirage. It’s really El Mirage, you know, and it’s just twenty miles up highway 60 from here. Why don’t you just go to the bus station and get a bus headed for Las Vegas? You can get a ticket for only as far as El Mirage.”



Rick was grateful for the information and felt stupid that he already was almost standing on top of what Groton and everyone else had said was Mirage, but he didn’t have the energy this afternoon to do more than get back to his hotel on the city bus. He had half a notion to call Groton and tell him to come pick him up—it could be the first test of the balance of control. But he was too tired and keyed up now to do that today.



He heard the buzzing from the hotel corridor. The walls were the thickness of tissue paper in this hotel. The buzzing continued as he unlocked and entered his room. The sound was coming from his duffel bag.



Rick fished through the duffel to the bottom and came up with the ringing cell phone—the one that Bill Grime’s lawyer had given him.



“Who the hell would call me on this,” he muttered as he looked for button that would put it on speaker. “I’ve never used this.”



“Rick? Rick Hernandez? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Almost decided you’d ditched the phone.”



Rick muttered something—enough for Kevin Morton, Grime’s lawyer, to know someone had picked up.



“It’s Kevin Morton, Bill Grimes’s lawyer.”



“How’d you know where I was?” Rick answered in confusion.



“It’s my cell phone, remember? I gave it to you. I have the number. You haven’t called.”



“Uh, no, I’m doin’ OK, thanks.”



“I didn’t call to find out how you were doing. I called to inform you that Bill Grimes is dead.”



“Dead? I don’t under . . . hey, wait. I had nothin’ to do with anything like that. I left right away for Albuquerque. I’ve got people there who can say where I’ve—”



Rick went silent and was beginning to shake and sweat. Did he really have anyone in Albuquerque who could or would alibi him for anything? He couldn’t go back to the Miller’s auto dealers and the Hispanic families in his neighborhood probably never really saw him in the first place. But there was his landlord. Yes, there at least—



“No, no, you don’t understand. Grimes committed suicide. Lots of us saw it coming and it was clear he did it himself. I’m calling because you are his heir. And there aren’t any contenders.”



“His heir? I don’t understand. You said . . . the adoption papers.”



“No, no. The first set of papers you signed made you his heir—everything he owned. And Bill Grimes was a very wealthy man. I saw his end coming—and, under the circumstances, although I couldn’t do much about it while he was alive, I don’t regret not trying to prevent him from crashing and burning nor do I regret helping him set up the paperwork to assign an heir before he did so. It was what he wanted anyway. He had the will drawn up before and separately from the adoption procedures. And if there are questions, I’ll vouch that he wanted to adopt you. And I’ve kept his memos of intent. Anyone who sees you and knew his son can see how he would attach to you. And frankly, as long as he’s gone, not many in his world will look too far into anything. We all saw it coming and saw the change in him. This is clearly what he wanted.”



“Uh, I’m not sure what to say. Could I call you back tomorrow or something. This needs to sink in.”



“Yes, yes, of course. I understand it’s a shock. But there will be no irregularities. I was his lawyer and the paperwork is air tight and there are no contenders. I can handle this for you, if you like, or find a very good lawyer for you for your own, if you wish. You’ll have to come to Santa Fe, of course—sometime soon. You can come anytime you want. There will be a house for you to stay in and a couple of cars to use—they are yours anyway.”



“OK, thanks. Let me sleep on this. I’ll call you tomorrow. Do I have your—?”



Morton laughed. “You really have been thrown off the beam, haven’t you? When I gave you the cell phone, I told you my number was programmed in. Just hit the number one button in the address file.”



Rick was shaking when he rang off. He needed to lie down. No, scratch that, he thought. He needed a stiff drink.



He left the hotel room and, impatient with the slowness of the elevator to respond, bounded down the four flights to the ground level. He stood out in front of the hotel momentarily, indecisive on which way to turn, and eventually, because he needed that drink now more than ever, just turned right and started walking down the store fronts of a strip mall. He was looking in the windows, at the displays, but not really seeing anything—just glancing long enough to think, “Nope, not a bar.”



He stopped at the window of a photography shop. Phil looked up and stared back at him through the window, incredulous.



It was Phil, not knowing why Rick was acting like a zombie, who managed to guide Rick to a nearby bar and not press him with any questions until Rick had downed his first shot of Bourbon.



“I told you I was thinking of opening a photography shop in the Southwest somewhere,” Phil said in answer to Rick’s question. “This seemed as good a place as any. So, what are you doing here? Still with Groton? I saw that the movie was finished and won the grand prize at the festival. So, are you out here with Groton and working on another?”



“I left Groton in Amarillo, Texas, Phil. Billy Dan left him soon after that too. We weren’t needed anymore. He had our parts in the can.”



“And he hasn’t paid you?”



“Not much yet.”



“Not yet? You are in contact with him then?”



“Yes.”



“And he’s here in Phoenix?”



“In El Mirage.”



“Ah.” Phil knew how close El Mirage was to Phoenix. “You on your way there now? You going to hook up with him again?”



“Yes. Uh, no, maybe not. Oh, I don’t know.” Not until now had it dawned on Rick that this inheritance changed everything. Suddenly the playing field was opened to him. His options had expanded. But that meant once more that he had to choose between goals.



“So, have you reached your goals, Phil?” he said, turning on Phil to make up for his confused thoughts. “You own that camera shop, do you?” Phil had drawn blood, and Rick’s defensive response was unmistakable.



“No, I just work in the camera shop,” Phil answered. “But good goals don’t usually come without pain and effort. And the one goal that became more important to me than my dream of my own shop turned out to be a mirage in itself. So, I guess you could say that so far I’m a loser.”



Rick didn’t respond to that. He was silent, the color rising in his face. Stung by the knowledge that Phil was talking about him as a goal that had vanished in the sands.



“It’s your life, of course,” Phil said, continuing when Rick had gone silent. “My view hasn’t changed. I still think that Groton and those movies and where you think you are headed beyond Phoenix are all mirages. That they are empty goals that will vanish whenever you think you are achieving them. But I’ll let you see the truth of that by yourself. The most I can say is that I think you are better than all of that.” He laughed then and downed his own glass of bourbon and stood up from the stool. “One thing that wasn’t a mirage, though. You were worth my tossing away that job for, even for the short time we had. You are undoubtedly the best lover I ever had. I haven’t found anything to satisfy me in that way since.”



Phil was on his feet and preparing to turn to the door. He had already thrown down the price of the drinks, assuming that Rick couldn’t pay. But then Rick put out a hand and grabbed his arm.



“I have a hotel room just down the block,” he said. That was all he had to say.



After they had spent themselves fucking, Rick on his back, legs wrapped around Phil’s thighs, and Phil full length on top of him, trapping Rick’s hands in his and his forehead plastered to Rick’s and holding Rick’s eyes captive of his to grasp and appreciate every nuance of Rick’s expression during the taking, Phil rolled off to the side. They maintained their embrace though, and lay in each other’s arms, panting as their breath came back under control and luxuriating in a fully satisfying experience for both of them—something wondrous they whispered to each other before Rick spoke more seriously.



“Is Phoenix where you really want to be? Sort of flat and too big, if you ask me. If you owned a shop, do you think you’d like to have it in Santa Fe?”



“Don’t know. Santa Fe is a bit rich for my blood.”



“So, you could charge more for your cameras and film and get away with it.”



“I suppose. But it’s not something I have to think about for the next twenty years or so. I’m pretty much done with chasing mirages.”



“Maybe, maybe not. Did I tell you that I’m rich. Maybe even a millionaire?”



“Rich, but you don’t know how rich?” Phil laughed. “Talkin’ of mirages.”



“Well, I haven’t counted it yet.”



“I’ll bite. What will you be doing in Santa Fe?”



“I’ll own a service garage—maybe even a dealership. I’m sort of partial to Toyotas.”



“And where would we live?”



“Oh, I have a very nice house in Santa Fe—in the hills overlooking the old town. And a Mercedes and an SUV. A BMW, I think.”



“You think? You’ve never seen it?”



“Just snatches as it was driving away. But it’s just waiting for me there.”



“Nice dream. I’m glad you can still see the humor in all of this. But you’re only twenty miles from your goal—from El Mirage. What about that dream?”



“Not so interesting now,” Rick answered. “Someone I really love told me once that it is only a mirage. There’s no there there.”



“I love the way you dream,” Phil murmured. He was heated up again and was working Rick’s cock with a hand.



“And I love the way you fuck. Dreams can wait. I can’t wait much longer for more of you, please.”



END

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.

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