The cyclist was racing along the top of the Mississippi levee, anxious to get back into Natchez before the rains hit. Sweating profusely in the humidity and under the blazing late afternoon sun, intent on doing its worst before twilight set in, he stripped his jersey off and wrapped it around the handlebars of the bike. It was almost dusk now, and the storm clouds were rumbling in. He felt chilled and tried to free the jersey from the handlebars while still pumping away down the levee. The wheels of the cycle skidded on a rock, and the cyclist and bike slid down the side of the levee away from the river and to the verge of the road below. The cyclist screamed in pain, as a spoke from the bike broke free and ran up under the skin along his abs.
He felt woozy, but he managed to stand, and, when he felt strength returning and his hands stopped shaking, he pulled the spoke out. The wound began to bleed copiously. He grabbed for his jersey, pulled it free, and stanched his bleeding side with it.
A big black limousine glided up beside him and stopped. The door to the backseat opened and a pleasant, calming voice asked if he needed a ride to somewhere where he could get first aid help. The cyclist hesitated a moment, but he knew he needed the help, he felt faint, and it was beginning to rain in large droplets. So, he left his bicycle where it had landed and entered the car.
The man in the far corner of the car introduced himself as Emile. He was wrapped in a black cape, and about all the cyclist could see of him was a once-handsome, but now craggy face and his eyes. The eyes were a beautiful shade of violet and were mesmerizing. The cyclist settled back into the opposite corner and stared into those violet eyes as he drifted off into a faint.
When he halfway regained consciousness, he found that his jersey was no longer covering his wound, but was lying on the floor, no longer drenched in blood. He would have wondered more about this, but he had become halfway aware that Emile was no longer in the opposite corner of the car. The cyclist was covered up to his neck by the black cape, and someone was under the cape sucking on the wound in his side, cleaning the wound of his blood.
The cyclist was growing more woozy and drowsy rather than recovering from his faint, and his limbs felt like lead. His senses were acute, but he felt like his body couldn't respond to what was happening to him. He just lay back in the seat and watched the black silk cape rustle across his body.
The bleeding along the cyclist's abs having stopped, Emile sat up and tossed his cap off his shoulders and behind him. The cyclist gasped and tried to emit a scream, but couldn't manage to do so. He was getting drowsier and drowsier. Emile was naked to the waist and, although he was wearing black leather pants, they were open at the crotch. He had the largest cock and balls the cyclist had ever seen on a man. Not yet engorged, he must already have been almost a foot long and nearly three inches thick.
While the cyclist helplessly watched, Emile produced a hand with grotesquely long, sharp fingernails and used one to slowly slit the cyclist's latex biking shorts down from the waistband along the thigh and to the bottom hem. Then he just opened the front of the shorts like a book. He stripped the cyclist's jock off. When he'd slit the shorts, he'd also slashed the skin of the biker's thigh. He moved his mouth to this cut and licked the thigh clean. He then stroked the cyclist's cock, getting it hard, while he brought his mouth to the cyclist's lips and went into a lingering kiss. Emile's eyes held the eyes of the cyclist, and the cyclist felt that he was losing control - but that somehow he didn't care. That he was drowning in those violet eyes, but that it was a very pleasant experience. Emile bit the cyclist's lip during the kiss and sucked on it contentedly while he stroked the cyclist's cock.
Emile came out of the lip lock and kissed and nibbled down the cyclist's arm, and the cyclist felt a slight pain in the hollow inside his elbow. He looked down and saw that Emile was sucking on him there. Looking beyond that, though, he also watched Emile's cock harden and lengthen and thicken further.
Emile tongued and kissed down the cyclist's bare torso, and the cyclist felt another little stab of distant pain near his navel, but shortly Emile had arrived at his cock, just as he was about to explode under the attention of Emile's hand, and Emile went down on the cock with his mouth and literally sucked all of the cyclist's cum as fast as he spewed it out.
Emile's cock had grown to a good fourteen inches long and over three inches in girth now, but, although the cyclist was fascinated by this rapid and impossible growth, he didn't feel alarmed. He was able to think in his drowsiness that he probably should feel alarmed, but he just couldn't muster the strength to care. A light buzzing was beginning to sound in his ears. Emile was talking to him, but he couldn't hear what Emile was saying.
Emile was gently pulling him out of his corner. Emile opened and moved to the jump seat closely facing the backseat and sat down. His telephone pole of a cock was waving around in front of what had developed over the past few minutes into a massively muscled chest tapering down to a well-defined set of abs and flat belly and a thin waist. The cyclist hadn't remembered Emile as being this well cut when he first got sight of that torso. He seemed years younger now.
Emile pulled the cyclist over onto his lap, facing him. The cyclist's respectably sized cock ran up next to Emile's inhumanly huge cock and was dwarfed. Emile had wedged a big pillow behind the cyclist's back on the seat, and the cyclist was reclined back against that, able to view all the way down his torso to the docked penises and than all the way up Emile's now-young and cut torso to those mesmerizing violet eyes.
Emile wrapped both of his hands around the two cocks as well as he was able and pumped them until the cyclist was ready to cum again. Then Emile just raised the cyclist's hips up, like he was bringing a cup to his mouth, swallowed the cock, and drank in the cyclist's semen for a second time. When the cyclist's hips were lowered again, he could see that Emile's cock had grown at least another inch. He also noticed, however, that the age lines in Emile's face were disappearing and his biceps were bulging.
Emile raised the cyclist's torso to him, supporting it with one arm around the back, and he buried his teeth and mouth into the artery running up one of the cyclist's arm pits. The cyclist just dangled there, feeling only the pleasure of the sucking sensation, none of the pain. One arm sort of waved over Emile's buried face and his other arm dangled behind him. He lolled his head back and tried to focus on the intricate pattern on the ceiling of the limo, trying to figure out what the design represented, halfway wondering if there wasn't something else he was supposed to be worrying about.
Finished with that feeding, Emile let the cyclist fall back on the cushion and watch the finale with increasingly glazed-over eyes. Emile's cock was a good foot and a half long now. He raised both of his legs onto the seat under the cyclist's buttocks and pushed the cyclist's body out more than a foot and a half, so that he could lower his cock head to the cyclist's hole. Emile lifted the cyclist's right leg and wedged his foot into the door strap above the window. The left leg he just pushed out as far to the left as he could and let the foot rest on the floor. Then he just firmly took the cyclist by his hips and slowly brought the cyclist's pelvis into his, skewering the young man's ass on the huge cock.
The cyclist watched it all as long as he could. Not feeling particularly involved, slowly going to sleep. He looked down his torso to what appeared to be a baseball bat between Emile's legs slowly disappearing into him. Emile stopped at six inches in and smiled a benign smile at the cyclist and worked the young man's hips back and forth, slowly, on his monstrously thick rod. The cyclist moaned and sighed and murmured his appreciation at the pleasure of the taking. Asking for more.
Emile's smile changed and he started to give the cyclist more. The young man could feel himself being stretched and torn inside, but he was beyond pain. Twelve inches in and the cyclist could still see half as many inches again awaiting entry. At fourteen inches entrenched, something serious ruptured inside him, and Emile got all excited and started to moan loudly, as blood bathed his cock and balls and bubbled out of the cyclist's ass. Emile's face began to look years younger, and his violet eyes blazed; his chest muscles bulged out and his nipples hardened. Emile's cock grew larger and pushed harder, and the cyclist blacked out.
The next morning, the body of the cyclist, inexplicably drained of blood, was found not far from New Orleans on the side of the road running along the Mississippi levee a good sixty miles from his broken and battered bicycle.
That night, though, Emile fairly bounded out of the limousine when it arrived back at Fortnet's retreat and ran up the steps into the house. Lamont Breaux was standing by the fireplace in the formal parlor, awaiting Emile's return, prepared to be decisive this evening.
'Enjoyed your evening, I see,' Breaux said, as he offered a snifter of brandy to his protege. You look forty years younger than you did when you left here as soon as the clouds rolled in this afternoon.'
'I feel forty years younger, too. Lamont,' Emile said. And they he lifted his head back and gave out a joyful, exuberant shout. 'I feel like I could cycle and win a marathon race. This is a wonderful feeling. I think I'm recovering from centuries of neglect quite nicely.'
'And are you remembering a pattern now, a pattern of your need?' Breaux asked quietly. 'I hadn't any idea how this works, but it does seem, does it not, that you need weekly feedings to maintain yourself? You seemed to have gone a bit too long this time, and it's barely been a week. Are you beginning to remember what your needs are and how they must be scheduled?'
'Yes, that's coming back to me now,' Emile responded. 'But I think the frequency of the need will elongate a bit when I have been recharged fully.'
'And have you begun to remember other things too, Emile? This feeding need does not come cheaply, you know.' Emile had left Breaux the opening he needed, the topic he had come here to discuss. This needed to be settled quickly now, or Emile might just as well return to dust. His maintenance, indeed, was going to be quite expensive. And the money was all going in the wrong direction now. Breaux hadn't freed Emile for him to become an expensive dependent. He already had a young man he rather fancied serving the role nicely.
'Come, let us walk on the terrace,' Emile said, with a broad smile. He moved to the French doors and opened one.
'This really can't be put off, Emile,' Breaux said with a touch of frustration. 'We really must . . .'
'Come, let us walk. I am too filled with energy and vitality just to stand still in this stuffy room. It is dark enough outside now. Come, let us walk, and we can talk, certainly . . . if you wish. About hidden treasure.'
Emile wandered around on the slate risers of the terrace in little energy-filled steps as Breaux stood at the door to the parlor and ticked off all of the expenses that needed to be covered. After a few minutes, however, Emile stood still on a particularly large stone, somewhat bigger than most of the others, and it was Breaux who started dancing nervously around him, trying to reason with him, trying to get him to reveal where the Fontnet treasure was buried, assuming there was such a thing. And for Emile's welfare, Breaux thought grimly, there jolly well better be a rich treasure to be had.
'I do understand,' Emile broke into Breaux's monologue. 'And these outings indeed are helping my memory. I do recall a considerable amount of gold bullion having been directly invested into this estate. And it just occurred to me where some of it might be.' Emile had a twinkle in his eye. He was immensely enjoying playing this decidedly unsavory and greedy little man.
Breaux stopped dead in his tracks, his ears perking up to exactly what he had wanted to hear. 'Where? Where is it?'
'Oh here and there, I think . . . I think . . . I can't really remember it all. It's all still a little hazy for me,' Emile said, drawing his words out slowly, enjoying torturing the other man.
'Where?' Breaux almost yelled, beside himself with frustration and tension.
'I do believe I am standing on some of it,' Emile said, his smile expanding. 'I am sure there is enough buried right here under my feet to satisfy us for quite some time. But I do believe I remember much of more it being hidden . . . somewhere else. I just cannot . . .'
Breaux wasn't really listening to Emile closely anymore; he was already calling for the chauffeur and shovels. He had almost reentered the house, when Emile brought him up short.
'But there are a couple of things I want added to the purchase list, one rather urgently, I think,' Emile said.
'What? When did you have opportunity . . . ?' Breaux wasn't liking what he was hearing. Somehow Emile had acquired enough understanding of the modern world to have been doing some shopping of his own. When could he have done that? Breaux knew he needed to have a little chat with the chauffeur, who was also supposed to be Emile's keeper.
'There is a place I have always coveted,' Emile continued, ignoring - but not missing - the concern showing in Breaux's face. 'Just a little plantation, over on the way to Biloxi. And I understand it is been on the market for some time. I am sure it can be acquired. Medallion is its name, I believe. If you buy that for me with some of the money under my feet, I am sure it will help improve my memory on where the bulk of the bullion might be waiting for us.'
'Medallion. You want me to buy another estate for you?' Breaux asked dully. 'And you already know it's for sale?'
'Oh, and I do believe I would like to go sailing next week,' Emile said, as the chauffeur huffed up with the needed excavation tools and Emile strolled to the French doors into the parlor. 'They have a musician in the French Quarter clubs I rather fancy. Definitely a musical instrument I would like to play. I understand he works some days and nights on a charter boat on Lake Pontchartrain. I think a night cruise - just me, the musician, and our chauffeur would be lovely. Within the next week, of course. The chauffeur has all of the details. But I feel a little weary now. I think I will retire to my chamber and savor the events of the day.'
And then Emile was gone. Lamont Breaux was lost in the need of the moment - digging up the treasure under the terrace slate riser and determining just how much richer he had become - and whether that offset the irritation and concern that Emile was raising. Emile was becoming independent and demanding much too soon. Especially, if he hadn't been lying, if there was an even greater treasure then this buried on the estate somewhere.