Emile LaCour was there for three nights in the basement strip club on Dauphine Street in the French Quarter, always sitting at the same table. Emile had picked the focus of his attention out on the first night - a lithe but well-muscled, dark Greek, displaying a mixture of danger and sassiness; much more into what he was doing than any of the other performers. His act was black leather. Studded-leather harness crisscrossing his chest, studded-leather wrist guards and cock ring, shiny black leather boots, and a leather captain's cap pulled down close over his eyes, hiding his expression until he wanted to reveal it - a beautiful cock and heavy balls. He was young and virile, vital and full of life.
The performer hadn't been the only one at the club who had drawn Emile's attention, and for much of that first evening Emile couldn't decide which of the beautiful young men to pick. On was a small, mixed-race musician with a beautiful, chocolate-with-cream complexion, an inviting smile, and a lilting, dancing movement as he played the blues numbers. He was a possibility, but for later. There were two here more intriguing then he. The third who had caught Emile's attention was another club patron, one who Emile swore was from a family he knew, a family that had lived east toward Biloxi from Fontnet's Retreat in a fine mansion Emile had always admired and coveted, Medallion, family seat of the LeMoynes. And he could swear that the young man sitting and brooding across the smoky club floor, settled into his alluring little pout and barely looking past the bottom of his beer glass to the activity around him, was the spitting image of Adrian LeMoyne. In his earlier life, Emile had made the delectable Adrian a prime target of his insatiable lust, but the LeMoynes had sent their son off for a European education and he thus had escaped Emile's terminal attentions. Emile had dreamed of him now for over two hundred years of entombment.
The brooding young man with the look simultaneously of a hulking athlete and a sensitive artist was there on the second night as well - and then the third. He seemed to be hunting something too, just as Emile was. But his seemed to be a hunt of solitude.
Emile wanted all three of them. And he could see no reason why he couldn't have them all. But one at a time. He had to choose. He decided he'd savor the winning of the Adrian lookalike, save him for later. And the beautiful little musician probably could be had at any time. What Emile needed to bring into his life now was virile youth, lustful exuberance, strength and sassiness. And the young leather-clad man strutting his stuff up on the stage fit that need very well.
By the second night, the young stripper had noticed Emile, sitting there in the dark corner of the club, obviously wealthy and urbane. Lamont Breaux had prepared him well over the past months to cope in an entirely new century - and he had caught on to the modern world even faster than Breaux imaged. Breaux had determined that it was time for Emile to hunt on his own and had let him take the car and driver into the flesh pot center of the city without Breaux being present. Breaux had already worn out his welcome in the French Quarter's gay strip and was highly recognizable now; he didn't want to be associated with Emile's hunting expeditions.
The quarry was being beguiled by Emile's eyes, boring into him in repeated visitations to the club, and by the third night the dancer was mesmerized. He only had eyes for Emile; he wiggled his butt and penis only for Emile. Emile sat there in the shadows, wrapped in his black cape, and the young leatherman performed only for the mysterious stranger. Emile had no doubts when he had a note passed backstage that the young performer would be there, waiting for the rich older, distinguished-looking man at the stage door at closing.
Emile was happy to see that he was out of the leather, into clean-cut white Polo shirt and tight low-rise jeans, as the driver ushered him into the back of the limousine.
Emile undressed the young man as the limo slowly maneuvered through the narrow streets of the quarter and emerged onto Esplanade and drove north. The dancer just sat there and let Emile pull his shirt over his head, expecting the elegant stranger to do exactly what he was doing. The dancer reached for Emile, accustomed to this sort of arrangement, but Emile pushed him away. The young man sighed and just leaned back in the cushions, ready for anything. There wasn't much he hadn't seen in this life. And he knew that he didn't make the rules.
Emile took the young stud's sensual, full lips in his own, and their eyes locked as Emile's hands slid down the dancer's torso. Emile's lips followed, lingering for a moment on the young man's neck, where Emile could feel an artery throbbing, urging Emile to hurry. Emile's hand went to the front of the young man's jeans, unbuckled his belt, unzipped his jeans, and ran under the material and down to his cock. Emile's lips came down to his nipples. The dancer sighed when his cock and balls were being caressed, but he gave a little lurch when Emile bit into his chest, just below his right nipple, drawing blood. Emile lifted his head and gave the young man an apologetic look with those mesmerizing eyes of his, taking advantage of the eye contact to draw the quarry in once more and calm him. Emile's lips went back to where he had bitten the dancer below the nipple, and he sucked the shallow wound dry, being sure to mix his saliva generously into the wound. Moments later, Emile looked back up into the young man's eyes, which were already getting drowsy and glazing over.
Emile stripped his jeans and boots off and lowered his mouth to a hardening cock. The hunter slowly pumped hunted's cock with his mouth, allowing his hands to flutter over the young dancer's body. The dancer opened his legs to give Emile access, and then he lay back in the seat quietly, his dulled senses centered on the languid blow job Emile was giving him and on the elegant stranger's hands caressing his body.
Despite his lethargy, the virile young man ejaculated in great profusion, and Emile drank his cum dry, taking possession of the precious elixir. Emile could feel his own long-dormant cock coming to life as he captured and possessed the virile youth's fountains of creamy semen.
Emile pulled the young man's legs farther apart and kissed his inner thighs. He found another throbbing artery there, where the inner thigh met the groin, and the club performer didn't seem to mind this time as Emile gently bit into him there and drank - not much, but just a little - to increase his strength and to further dissipate the young man's.
At the top of Esplanade, the limousine glided silently into the St. Louis Cemetery. Near the middle of the cemetery, the car stopped, and Emile gently carried the naked young man from the car and laid him on top of one of the raised tombs.
As Emile stood back, his cape opened, and the young man opened his eyes and beheld his master in full revelation. Emile only wore black leather pants under the cape and even these had no crotch in them. The young man stared at Emile in shock, his eyes open wide, trying to focus and come back to full awareness. His eyes went from Emile's smooth, heavily muscled barrel chest down to his thin waist and flat stomach, and the young man literally gasped when his scrutiny had traveled farther down. Emile was inhumanly huge in both length and girth, even when only half engorged. The dancer began to murmur in fear and to try to slide away from Emile along the top of the tomb. But he was too weak to fight the hunter, too weak already to escape his master. Ironically the young man himself was responsible for Emile's current size and was still to learn how big Emile could get thanks to his hospitality.
Emile moved in toward his quarry and pulled him back to him by his legs. Emile buried his lips and teeth into the club stripper's groin, between his inner thigh and his balls on the opposite side to where Emile had sucked on him before. And the master fed on that still-throbbing artery to the legs, while stroking the young man's cock again. When he was ready to cum once more, Emile transferred my mouth to his cock and drank him in to the fullest for a second time.
Emile's cock was hard enough now and his quarry was completely defenseless. Awake enough to know what was happening, but weak enough not to either care or to be able to do anything about it. The master spread his legs and opened the dancer to him. His hole was as big and as slack as a New Orleans whore can be. But still, he had never been fucked by anyone as long and deep as Emile already was. It took the hunter a few minutes to enter him six inches. Emile liked to toy with them at this point, for them to get the full effect of the thickness of him before they experienced the length. At only six inches in, Emile slowly moved back and forth inside the dancer and rotated around in him, giving the young man the full effect - before he was introduced to the fullest affect of all. And all the while the dancer was moaning and grunting quietly and writhing languidly below his tormentor. This was one of the most masterful fucks he'd every gotten from a client or admirer. For a few moments he was permitted to believe that this was the apex of the encounter - that he'd go home believing he'd been royally fucked by a master swordsman.
But all the while, the numbing venom the dancer had been injected with through Emile's saliva was shutting down his defense systems. This wasn't the apex of the fuck; this was only the prologue. The cloaked figure wrapped his arms around the young man and brought their torsos together. The stripper's arms hung limply behind him, his head lolled back. Emile fed on his left nipple for a few minutes, making quiet, satisfied slurping sounds, the blood dribbling down his chin. And Emile's cock continued to lengthen and thicken.
Emile was tired of the six-inch penetration foreplay, and he slowly started to make the torso of the young man descend down on his cock. The mysterious stranger was now plowing in what was virgin territory even for the active prostitute, where no man or dildo had gone before. The sedated dancer moaned in pleasure, all pain now a thing of the past for him. With his last vestiges of strength, he wrapped his arms around Emile's chest and his legs around Emile's buttocks, holding me in, and brought his lips to those of the dark stranger.
The hunted was all the hunter's now. He wanted Emile to take him, to finish, to possess him fully, to take his virility. The master was now fourteen inches into him, tearing him apart, with him no longer able to feel pain, only pleasure. The blood flowing from the rents in his intestines was bathing Emile's cock and balls and trickling down his thighs. Rejuvenating Emile. Augmenting his life. Fifteen inches. Sixteen inches.
Emile released his victim's mouth, and his head lolled back again. His arms and legs lost their strength, and he just lay there against Emile, but arched back, held in Emile's loving, thankful, worshipping grip. The master's teeth went to that barely throbbing artery running up the side of the young man's neck and sank in, and he drank deeply. Seventeen inches. Eighteen inches.
When Emile had drunk the young man nearly dry, he laid him back on the surface of the tomb. Emile was at nineteen inches when he gave a little life back to his prey, flooding his stomach with his precious semen. But by then the young stripper already was dead.
Emile turned and walked briskly back to the darkness of the limousine interior, the spring of new-found youth screaming in his muscles and blood. As he clicked the door shut, the first rays of the dawn found the white marble body stretched out on the gray marble tomb, its arms flung out in open welcome.
A barked order in a newly energized voice and the limousine sped back to the club, arriving in time to see the other young man Emile had been interested in leave the club, climb into a BMW sports car and drive at high speed out toward the coastal road to the east. Fifty minutes later, Emile smiled a knowing smile as he saw the BMW pull into the gates of the Medallion mansion. The line of the LeMoynes had survived. Emile had intended on ending their line in the early nineteenth century, but Adrian's European trip had prevented that. Now, two centuries later, Emile would be getting another chance. It was almost too delicious to contemplate.
Emile was in high spirit when he returned to his heavily draped upper chamber at Fontnet's Retreat. A very serious-looking Lamont Breaux awaited him, not all that patiently. The slightly pudgy middle-aged lawyer was sitting and brooding in an enshrouding Chippendale wing chair beside a fireless fireplace.
Emile breathlessly told his protector of the marvelous evening he had, although, by instinct, he carefully held back from mentioning the discovery of his LeMoyne neighbor at the club. Breaux didn't need to know everything. He smugly felt he was in complete control of his very dangerous protege, but Emile thought otherwise.
'I was happy to make this little outing of yours possible,' Breaux said with his best-honeyed voice modulation. 'I told you that I would see to your needs, and, as you can see, I am doing so.'
'Yes, thank you, Lamont,' Emile responded, making his voice as humble as his total arrogance would allow. 'You have, indeed, been quite generous with your time and support.'
'It was my pleasure,' Breaux said. 'But speaking of pleasure, pleasure - especially your kind of pleasure - can be very expensive. We really must look to setting up your finances to support your needs and your pleasure. I haven't brought this up before, but we really do need to start thinking about something more permanent and sustaining.'
'Yes, yes, of course,' Emile responded smoothly, 'but I still feel in a much too weakened condition to be thinking of those things . . . Perhaps after another outing or two. At the height of my climax this evening, I received a glimmer of past remembrances. I'm sure with more stimulation . . .' Emile left the proposal hanging there in the air. This hadn't, in fact, been the first time Breaux had brought up finances. He increasingly worked references into his discussions with Emile, trying to make his strange and temperamental protege understand that he - and thus Breaux - needed funds to support the very expensive lifestyle Emile needed to have. And Emile was no fool. He knew what Breaux was after. He was after the Fontnet fortune. The buried fortune of the legend. Except that Emile knew it was no legend. And he knew there was far more available than anyone had imagined. But slowly, piecemeal. The moment Breaux sensed he had control of it all, Emile had no doubt of what Breaux would try to do to Emile.
'More stimulation,' Breaux said. It would have been a question, but Breaux was smart enough to know he was being played and that, at least at this point, Emile held all of the cards. 'So, would you say that another outing, perhaps a week from today, could stimulate your memory to the point where you might have some insights into the improvement of the financial situation?'
'Oh, I'm sure of it,' Emile said with a broad smile. 'I think perhaps a drive along the levee in the twilight next week would be a good stimulant. I presume there is still a passable river road following the levee between New Orleans and Natchez? I haven't ridden that road since the early eighteen hundreds. I think I would enjoy seeing if anything has changed.'