Ham LeMoynes couldn't sleep, and he thought he heard a noise from downstairs. Probably only one of the many ghosts haunting this old, rotting mansion, he thought. But, still, he was fully awake now. He rose off the cot he'd set up in his room until after everything was packed out and padded down the stairs into the music room. He was barefoot, only wearing his muslin sleeper pants. In twenty-four hours the plantation house his family had lived in for generations would be occupied by someone else - it had been sold to that odious Lamont Breaux, that
New Orleans lawyer who had made passes at him several times in recent years in the French Quarter's gay bars. If he thought . . . but who cared what Breaux thought? Ham would be out of here and on an airplane before Breaux took possession of the house. And he'd been trying to sell Medallion for years, before it fell down around him. He cared little who bought it.
Of course it was Ham's own decision to leave. Everyone else in the family was dead. He'd been so avid in rising in the ranks of the wrestling world and making the Olympic team that he hadn't noticed everyone around him withering and dying on this land. When he had awakened to what had happened, the dry rot that had undermined his family, he decided to sell this cursed place and move to San Francisco, where he could start a new life, and no one would know he sprang from a great southern family gone to seed. The only pieces of furniture left in the music room now were the Steinway grand piano and the bench that went with it. He had sat at this piano all afternoon, playing the classical pieces his mother had loved to hear him play. The piano was too big to go to San Francisco. A moving company would be picking it up in the morning, and it would be going straight to storage, who knows for how long. Meanwhile, for some reason he couldn't keep his hands off the keys, playing those pieces his mother had loved, trying to bring her spirit back into the room.
There was a candelabra on the piano, and Ham took up a book of matches and lit the candles. The light was sufficient for him to see the keyboard, but it had little effect on the shadows out beyond the Steinway. He saw that he'd left half a drink next to the candelabra from his afternoon reveries, and he tossed that off in two gulps and sat down at the piano. He would play; perhaps that would make him drowsy.
He started playing and, indeed, he began to feel drowsy. But it was a funny kind of drowsy. It was a drowsiness that seemed to distance him from his surroundings but that didn't put him to sleep. His arms and legs felt heavy, but he continued to play, his fingers having memorized the proper notes. He looked at the glass he'd sat back down on the piano. Had it really still had bourbon in it when he'd gone up to bed? Sighing, he went back to attacking the keys on the piano.
He didn't know what made him look up, but when he did, he saw what appeared to be the swirl of a black cape in the window alcove. A black silk cape topped with piercing eyes, which held his and bored into his brain as he watched. At first he wasn't even sure that he was seeing anything real. But, mysteriously, as he became increasingly aware that the man was real, he also increasingly became unconcerned whether he was real. The man's violet eyes held his in thrall. Ham's hands continued to play, but the rest of his body seemed to be held in some sort of suspension.
With a swirl, the man's cape opened, and Ham gasped. The man was of indeterminate age, although age obviously was beginning to catch up with him. Still, he appeared to be in pretty good shape. Ham could tell this, because the man was naked to the waist. But, most shocking of all, his black leather pants were open at the crotch, and Ham could see a tremendously long dong hanging down between two huge balls. Ham felt weak in the knees and wondered why he didn't get up and do something about this obscene intrusion. But those eyes, those mesmerizing eyes, were locked onto his.
Those eyes held his as the man slowly walked over to the piano. Eye contact was lost, however, as the man swooped around Ham and straddled him from the back on the bench.
Ham felt that gigantic cock rising up the small of his back, and he shuddered.
The man told him to continue to play, addressing him as "Adrian." Ham was confused and a little concerned - especially by the feeling that he should be very concerned but, for some reason, wasn't. Those violet eyes. Whatever was in that drink. Ham continued playing as the mysterious stranger had bid for him to do, his fingers flying on the keys but nothing else about him seeming to work, to be able to connect to any sense of danger. The man, virtually naked, was close behind him, rubbing his bare torso up and down Ham's naked back. This obviously excited the man, because his cock began to harden against Ham's back. But why was he whispering the name "Adrian" over and over again?
A great lethargy came over Ham, and his hands just dropped from the keyboard and dangled at his side. He was able to continue sitting on the bench, but he didn't feel capable of doing much else. And he didn't seem to feel worried about anything that was happening to him either.
The man wrapped his arms around Ham and slashed him diagonally from left belly to right shoulder with long, sharp fingernails. He then dug the nails into Ham's nipples. Ham felt the pain, but it seemed to be distant; it seemed to be happening to someone other than him. Then the man's hands went to Ham's cock, pulling his sleeping trousers to under the ball sac and pumping his cock with one hand, while rolling and pulling his balls with the other.
The man was kissing Ham on the side of the neck, and Ham flopped his head over as the man's teeth found Ham's carotid artery and slit it, allowing the man to feed there. Ham felt the man's cock getting even larger, and he felt something else too. The man's chest seemed to be filling out, the pecs he was pushing into Ham's shoulder blades beginning to bulge. All the time Ham was being slowly jacked off, which he found quite pleasant in a drowsy sort of way, as he did the sucking sensation at this neck and the steady rise of the monster cock at his back.
The man sensed Ham tensing, ready to shoot off, and he quickly took his mouth away from Ham's neck and came around to his front and knelt, taking Ham's cock into his mouth and sucking every ounce of the well-conditioned athlete's spouted semen, stripping his lounging pants off in the process.
The man Ham now could see wasn't the man he'd seen in the window. He was years younger now, and in far superior shape. His face had lost most of its crags and creases, and the man was downright handsome, even without those mesmerizing violet eyes. And that cock was a regular telephone pole. Ham had been in a lot of locker rooms in his life, and, truth be known, had stuffed cock and been stuffed, but he'd never seen a dong like that. And it was still growing.
After the man had sucked Ham's cock dry, his lips traveled up Ham's torso, licking at the wounds his fingernails had opened from Ham's belly up to his shoulder. He sank his teeth into each nipple in turn and nursed what blood he could out of them. Ham could feel the sucking sensation, but he slowly was losing any sense of pain. And this vacuum was being replaced by a dreamy sense of pleasure and well-being.
The man's teeth and lips had gone to the unmilked side of Ham's neck, and he had drilled there gently and was lapping up the flow. His hands were at the side's of Ham's chest, with the thumbs of each hand rubbing Ham's nipples, causing Ham's cock to come alive again.
Ham could barely raise his own arms, but he did manage to reach out to the man's chest as he crouched over in front of him, slurping gently at Ham's neck.
Ham could feel the years melting off the man's torso as he fed. Ham ran hands over slowly redeveloping biceps and pecs, down a rib cage that was reforming into an enviable six pack, across a flattening belly, and to that magnificent cock, already well over a foot long and hardening into steel. The man moaned and sighed, and Ham wasn't sure whether it was because of what he was drinking or because Ham was trying to get some sort of understandable measurement of the rising cock. The oppressor was whispering that name, "Adrian," again.
One of the man's hands came down to Ham's own cock, which was also on a modest rise again, and began stroking it.
It was fully engorged again when the man was finished at Ham's neck. He lifted Ham by his hips and turned his back to the keyboard and just lifted him up and gently laid him on top of the closed piano sounding board. Ham was virtually sitting on the keys and for the next several minutes he was playing a somewhat unmelodious tune with his butt cheeks. The man folded up Ham's legs, spread outward from his body and let Ham know he was to dig his heels into the lower and higher octave keys to maintain his position. Ham was able to do this at least for a while, but all strength and energy were draining out of him. It was only his magnificent conditioning that was holding him together at this point.
The man's mouth came down on Ham's cock and was able to swallow it in time for his second milking of Ham's semen, and from where Ham would see, another ten years melted off the man and another fifty visits to the gym pumped into him.
The man's mouth went directly from Ham's cock to his hole, and the man tongued him briefly there and then chewed around the rim, slitting the rim in several places and raising little rivulets of blood, which the man licked at enthusiastically. While he was doing this, a fingernail from each hand was slitting into the artery running up Ham's inner thigh on each side into his groin, and the man sucked from each side, in turn, until Ham lost all feeling in his legs and his heels began to slip off the keys. The man had his cock head at Ham's hole then, and he stuffed it in to the rim of the knob. Ham was being fucked. The cock was unbelievably fat and was mining deep, deeper than any Ham had had heretofore. But when he looked down, it seemed that very little of what the man had was inside Ham. Ham was being slowly pumped and he was enjoying the fuck, even though he knew he shouldn't be. And the stranger was obviously enjoying the fuck too, cooing softly and murmuring that name, "Adrian."
The man was getting worked up. He seemed to be losing his control. He was trembling and plowing deeper into Ham's hole. Deeper and deeper. Faster and faster, pulling Ham's hips down toward his pelvis, more and more of the gigantic tool disappearing with each thrust. Ham was still aware enough to silently scream and to know he didn't want to slip down onto that gigantic tool. But his heels slowly lost purchase on the front edge of the keyboard, and his hands slipped off the edge of the piano top, and he slowly descended on the man's cock. There was no question of going slowly enough to allow him to open up to a four-inch-thick, seventeen-inch-long cock, so Ham's anal walls split up almost from the entry.
The man, in turn, was becoming very agitated. He was murmuring that name again, over and over, louder and ever more vehemently. With a mournful cry of "Adrian," the man lost control and just thrust himself into Ham again and again, deeper, deeper, pushing the young man's now-inert body across the top of the piano with the force of his plunges, exploding his semen into the center of his prey.
The next morning there was no sign of what had transpired in the music room that evening. The blood had been cleaned off the piano keys. The piano top was firmly shut over the piano sounding board and was being held shut with a heavy canvas strap, daring anyone to open it before moving it into storage. Ham never appeared in San Francisco.
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