A Night at Falcon's Lair

From: Jon Jay Williams

Picture: Steven Stines

Published in: Indulge, October 1997 (issue 21)

"I'm asking. You giving? I want you, Mr. Falcone. I want your ivory rod in my ass. Clear?"

_____


The wind and rain swooped out from between the bleak hills and buffeted the car, forcing Don to fight back with wild jerks of the steering wheel. He cursed under his breath at himself. This was turning out to be some vacation. He couldn't see, even with the lights on dim and the wipers on high. He knew he was somewhere between Litchfield and Goshen. With this weather and the fading twilight, he was going to have to stop. To continue was to tempt fate. He saw the open iron gate and the inviting ribbon of white rock leading off between a row of wildly whipping oaks. Beyond them were shimmered lights, sanctuary from the storm. He turned in.

The drive was easier to see in the fading light than the two lane blacktop he had left. A giant bolt of lightning slashed across the sky, illuminating the house. The immediate clap of thunder rocked the car. The smell of crisp ozone seeped into the cab. With a wink, the house disappeared.

He shook his head in disbelief and then focused through the pelting rain. It was still there, just dark, every light extinguished. That lightning had disrupted the power. As he continued creeping up the drive, flickering lights appeared in the house. A lantern of some type glowed brightly, silvering the windows off a downstairs room just right of where he remembered seeing an entry portico. Slowly, as if in greeting, hurricane chimneyed candles appeared in other downstairs windows. With the way the wind was whipping around the house, grabbing the umbrella would be futile. If it wasn't wrenched out of his hands, it would be shredded before he reached the front door. Hunching his shoulders and tugging his jacket tight, he raced up the steps. He leaned against the door to get away from the biting wind and lifted his fist to knock. A gust of wind swung the door open with a crash. Caught off guard, he tumbled into the entryway right at the feet of his host for the evening.

"My, what a dramatic entrance. You're soaked. You get out of those wet things this instant. I'll be right back with some towels and a robe."

The voice was clear, sharp, with distinct diction. Yet it was so soft-spoken, Don could not gage the age or gender of the speaker who stood before him, wreathed in the glow of candle light from a bank of tapers on the table farther back in the hall.

The figure turned, picked up a candle from the edge of the table and drifted off up the stairs, muttering. As Don picked himself up off the floor, he voiced his thanks. The figure paused at the first landing and turned. His host was male, tall, gaunt, but handsome in a dark, brooding way. He smiled, and life sparkled in his eyes for an instant.

"It's the least I could do. Any port in a storm I suppose. That is the only reason you're here?" He chuckled. It was a light but deep rumbling sound. "I'll be right back. Don't disappear on me again."

"I'm not going anywhere until this storm dies down," said Don to the retreating back. He then caught the last word and furrowed his brow. He· shook his head, knowing he just hadn't heard correctly.

Don now took time to survey his surroundings and start struggling out of the wet clammy mess in which he was encased. He wanted to wring out his jacket and everything else as he disrobed, but the puddle he was making was bad enough. No need to add to the mess.

This was some house. What he had glimpsed in the lightning flash had been tall peaks and gables, covered with fancy work he had heard called architectural gingerbread. The inside seemed to match. At least the entryway, main hall and grand staircase were as ornate. Everything was a shade of maroon with glossy black trim, even the floor--a mosaic of tiles in matching shades of deep to pale maroon swirling around a stylized black bird of prey with a blood-red serpent clutched in its beak. What furniture there was to see was black, ebony or painted? The candles standing at attention in two rows on the table were in stark contrast to their surroundings--glistening white with dancing yellow-orange flames.

Don left his briefs on. They were damp but not dripping wet. Everything else was in a wet oozing pile at his feet. He turned toward the stairs when he heard a soft cough. His host was approaching--his arms loaded with a towering pile of terry cloth, deep dark maroon terry cloth.

Don studied the man descending the stairs. His first impression was confirmed. The owner--or current resident--of this quaint abode was at least six feet six and rail-thin. Except for those sparkling eyes, one would almost describe his face as waxen; still, it was a well-shaped, handsome mask. There was a grace to his carriage and the way he moved. He had an almost regal bearing. All in all, he was a strange but appealing package wrapped in gray. His shoes, slacks, shirt, coat and even his tie were in matching shades of somber gray. This made his pale skin and raven hair even more dramatic.

Dumping his burden on the chaise standing against the wall opposite the candle-covered table, his host turned, handed him a giant maroon towel and introduced himself.

"Welcome to Falcon's Lair. I'm Joshua Falcone, your host. Here, have another. I'll take these"--he bent and scooped up the dripping pile Don had deposited on the floor--"and get them on a line in the basement, pending the return of electric power and the ability to use the dryer. Might as well add those." He held out his hand, obviously expecting Don to strip off his briefs and hand them over.

Joshua's eyes were twinkling. A glimmer of a smile twisted his lips as he waited. Don quickly wrapped the second towel around his waist, eased out of the damp briefs and handed them to Joshua. As he did, the towel hit the floor. Don blushed and grabbed the towel from around his neck to recover his loins.

"There's a robe over there," Joshua said, pointing at the chaise with a handful of dripping clothes. "Maybe you can keep it on. If you want to." With that enigmatic comment, he departed down the hall.

"Thanks," said Don, again talking to a retreating back. He continued, "I'm Don, Don Pendelfelt. Appreciate your hos--" He let his voice trail off. The master of Falcon's Lair had disappeared behind a door at the far end of the hall.

Don refolded the two damp towels, laid them on the chaise with the others, and slipped into the robe. It was super thick, warm and reached nearly to the floor. He knotted the sash around his waist and stood, staring down the hallway. The house was silent. But, not really. Slowly he picked out the distant rat-a-tat of the rain on the roof and against the side walls. Then there were the wind sounds and soft creaking of the house itself as it resisted the wind's buffeting. And, from behind the door on the right a hissing, sizzling, popping came to his ear.

He opened the door to find a cozy, brightly lit sitting room. A large kerosene lantern hung from the ceiling. A fire danced behind a screen in the giant fireplace, spreading warmth and adding shifting highlights to the white glow from the lantern. He entered and ended up sitting in one of the two loungers that bracketed the fireplace. A paper lay folded in the seat of the other lounger. A now-cold mug of tea or coffee sat on the table beside it.

Rain was streaking the windows. The outside sounds seemed even more muted. Then he started taking inventory of his surroundings and stopped in astonishment with his eyes locked on the painting over the mantel. He had no memory of posing or being in a snapshot from which an artist could have produced that work--but it was him, Don Pendelfelt in the flesh, totally, up there.

Then he looked closer. Well, yes, and no. It was startling, the resemblance. But, his ears didn't stick out like that. The eyes were blue-green, not his own sapphire blue. And, he only wished his manhood was as imposing.

"He is something, isn't he?" That soft voice intruded with a matter-of-factness that didn't startle Don.

He turned to see his host framed in the doorway, no longer covered in gray. Joshua was now wrapped in a robe that matched the one he had provided to Don--deep maroon, nearly floor-length, plush. Joshua crossed the room, picked up the cup and saucer from beside the other lounger.

"I'm going to replace this. You could do with a hot drink, right?"

He didn't wait, didn't seem to expect a reply. And soon returned with a tray on which rested two steaming mugs and a tall crockery pitcher out of which stuck a wooden handle.

Joshua smiled at Dan's quizzical look. "Old-fashioned hot toddy, stirred with a poker right from off the kitchen's antique wood burner. We have alternatives to almost everything electric--lose power a lot out here."

Joshua handed Don his drink. His touch was soft. Don felt a tingle as Joshua's pale fingers drifted across his during the exchange. They seemed to linger, caressing. Don looked up into Joshua's face and discovered that the sparkle in Joshua's eyes was flecks of silver floating in the deepest pure violet he had ever seen. Don was captivated, lost in those eyes. Forgetting why he had raised his head, he smiled. Joshua smiled back, broke contact, and eased into his lounger.

As Joshua sat, the tie on his robe loosened. It fell open, disclosing an almost snow-white bare chest with a glittering silver loop hanging from one nipple. The other was still hidden from view. He made no effort to adjust his robe. Instead, he concentrated on taste-testing the drink. Muttering appreciatively to himself, he lifted his mug in salute to Don. Don sipped. It was hot, strong and damn good.

"You like?" Joshua asked.

Don nodded and wondered what he had just agreed with. He had been surreptitiously looking at his host. Joshua wore no rings. The adornment on his nipple was all the jewelry to be seen. Don had to admit, in a way, the look was right for Joshua and was, like the rest of him, strangely appealing. But, the question ran around in Don's head: Was that silver circle it? Or were there more surprises under that maroon robe? And just why did he think he was going to find out if there were? Did he want to? He glanced back up at the somber but titillating figure study he had first assumed was of himself. He glanced over at Joshua who was busy pouring another mug full of toddy.

Hell, yes, Don thought and found that his body had raced ahead of his brain. He was already half-hard, wanting to know more about Joshua and whoever that was in the picture--and what else was under that fucking maroon robe on the other side of the fireplace.

"You hungry? I'm sure we can whip something up in the kitchen," interrupted Joshua.

They dined in elegant splendor, following a good hour and a half of provocative but safe banter and eye-play as Don sat at the kitchen table watching Joshua fix the meal. Joshua was an excellent chef--and an efficient one. When they carried their plates into the dining room, the kitchen looked unused, everything sparking, clean and in its place.

Don was a little taken back when Joshua bowed his head in reverent silence after he sat down.

"Just thanking the storm gods," said Joshua, looking up and smiling. We get lonely out here. You do know you are beautiful." Again the voice was matter-of-fact, making a statement, calm, soft.

Regardless, Don felt shivers of delight, anticipation and a touch of alarm at the boldness of Joshua's compliment. He lowered his eyes to concentrate on the meal, making no reply.

From then on, each time Don lifted his eyes to look at his host, he found Joshua studying him, chewing thoughtfully, licking his lips, sipping on his drink, his eyes sparkling in the candle light.

When Don agreed that he could use a refill on his drink, Joshua didn't pass the pitcher across the table. Instead he came around, stood beside and slightly behind Don, leaned over and filled his mug. Joshua's body pressed on Don's arm and across his shoulder. There was a sensual warmth that penetrated through the layers of terry cloth. Don looked up at Joshua. Involuntarily, his arm lifted and circled Joshua's waist, hugging him closer. Joshua's robe fell open, revealing no further jewelry, but he was clearly aroused. He turned in Don's grasp.

The invitation was blatant. Don's response was unavoidable. With a sigh, he leaned and rubbed his cheek against the warm ivory of Joshua's erection. Don's tongue crept out and traced its way along that shaft of flesh; his eyes rolled up to see Joshua's reaction. Joshua was watching, eyes glimmering. His lips pursed and he blew a silent kiss down to Don's face. Joshua's hips thrust forward. Don's lips parted.

Joshua's fingers ruffled through Dan's hair, lightly touched his ear, pushed his robe open and massaged his shoulders. All the while, Don moved slowly, as if in a trance, licking his tongue around and over Joshua's glans as it undulated between his lips. Gradually, Joshua's hip movements became broader, pushing his cock deeper into Don's mouth. Similarly, Don began to lean farther, sucking more and more of that nearly snow white stiffness between his lips. Don was uttering soft grunts of pleasure each time Joshua's pelvis pushed forward, his grip tightening around Joshua. Joshua's fingernails scraped the skin on the back of Don's shoulder. As the sound of Don's mouth and his grunting filled the room, Joshua's eyes closed. He laid his head back. His mouth hung open and the rushing shudders of his heavy breathing added a low, pulsing background noise.



Don opened wider, shoved forward, and found raven curls tickling his nose, a throbbing dick-head lodged in this throat. He swallowed. For the first time he heard a moan escape from deep within Joshua. He let that ivory prong glide out and then plunged it back down. A longer, louder moan floated out into the room. Joshua moved a hand to rest lightly, then harder, on the back of Don's head, keeping the action steady, driving his cock to the limit with each shove. Joshua's moans were constant now. They climbed the scales, growing louder with each driving penetration of his cock into Don's clutching wet opening. Don's head was bobbing quickly, air rushing through his nostrils.

Joshua pulled away, breaking Don's grip on his hips. During their struggles, Don's robe had parted all the way. His own manhood stood proud and quivering, reaching for the ceiling. Joshua's eyes linked with Don's. He let the hand that had rested on Don's shoulder close firmly around his wet meat, dripping with Dan's saliva. Joshua stroked it. Don watched, his own hand reaching for his cock. Together they watched the fire in each other's eyes as they began to race toward total release.

Don was rocking his chair, beating, jerking hard, letting his hand roughly ride up and down, tugging his dick skin tight then easing it up over his prick's glistening, slick, cherry-red head. His gut was in a knot, quivering, filled with fire.

Joshua's face was glowing. His hand whipped faster and faster, his cock seeming to grow larger and longer with each rapid beat. His mouth was still open, but now it was twisted into a wide, teeth-baring smile. The sound that he made was more guttural, an animal cry that reverberated from deep in the center of his heaving chest. The silver circlet hanging from his nipple was dancing in the flickering candlelight. And then he stiffened, his hand vibrating, and his eyes flew wide open. White, creamy, sticky cum gushed out, flying across the table, splattering on Don, streaming in random sprays scattered by the wild thrashing of Joshua's hand. A droplet ran down Don's cheek, a white tear of joy. Others lay like dew drops caught in the soft fuzz of Don's chest hairs.

Joshua sank to his knees beside Don's chair. His concentration now given fully to Don's bucking masturbation. "Let me help," Joshua said, still trembling with passion.

He bent and sucked Don's throbbing cock into his mouth. Don cried out and nearly lifted out of the chair, trembling, thrashing as Joshua manipulated his cock with his lips. Joshua settled in with a steady slurping, bobbing up and down, teasing Don's balls with his hand.

Don grabbed the arms of the chair. His body was jerking, his boner driving deep into Joshua's mouth--hot, ready to explode. He felt Joshua's tongue press him firmly against the roof of Joshua's mouth, and then his cock pushed past the opening at the top of Joshua's throat. Don was captured, fully contained, trembling. A cry of warning screeched out. Joshua's hand encircled Don's shaft as his lips lifted. Don felt a final tingling lick on his dick-head. As Joshua let his hand take over, the hot pearly jizm bubbled up and out, flowing like steamy lemon sauce. Don's prick was spitting gobs that dribbled back down, coating Joshua's hand. Cum slicked Don's pulsing cock, dripping down on his belly, hanging by shimmering slick threads over his balls.

Joshua looked up at Don's face--scrunched into a grimace of passion--and smiled. The candle glow twinkling in his eyes, Joshua let Don's trembling and groaning fade. He stood and pulled Don up out of the chair into his arms. Joshua bent his head, brushed his lips on Don's. Lightly, Joshua ran the tip of his tongue across Don's eyelids, then down to his lips. Don was quaking, still reacting to his orgasm, his mind tumbling at the onslaught of sensations.

Joshua walked away, extinguishing candles, reaching up and turning off the lantern. Silently, Don followed Joshua from the room and up the staircase. Bright flashes of lightning flickered, chasing the darkness, only to have it fall again. Even in the inky black, Joshua could be seen. There was almost a glow to his skin as he moved in front of Don.

"You're welcome to the guest room," Joshua said, opening a door in the upstairs hallway. He moved aside, letting Don move forward. "Or, maybe you'd rather not be alone in a strange house?" He laid a hand on Don's arm.

They ended with their robes becoming puddles of maroon on the master bedroom floor. In a brilliant burst of light, Don saw Joshua in the dresser mirror. He stood, glistening ivory, a rubber half rolled down an imposing shaft. When Joshua joined him on the bed, Don curled into Joshua's arms. In darkness, his body melded with Joshua's. Don was burning as his flesh touched Joshua. Joshua's hands were cool, rubbing soothingly on him.

"I'm glad you came," whispered Joshua.

"Glad to be here," answered Don.

Don felt Joshua's firmness pressing against him, riding up and down slowly between his buttocks. It felt as cool as Joshua's hands, but its presence had Don's rear squirming, hot, horny. Don wiggled his butt. Joshua's arm tightened around his chest. Don heard a muffled comment from where Joshua was nuzzling on his shoulder. It sounded like Joshua said, "Don't leave again."

Don's head was buzzing, he was a little tipsy and burning with passion. He figured he didn't hear correctly. He eased Joshua's arm loose, pushing his hand down, bringing it to rest on his growing erection. Don wiggled his butt again.

"You, young man, are asking for it," came Joshua's voice crystal-clear from right beside his ear.

Don felt a cool hand circle his stiffening cock. He bucked his hips, feeling coolness front and back. He groaned, turned his head, and then spoke: "I'm asking. You giving? I want you, Mr. Falcone. I want your ivory rod in my ass. Clear?"

"Indubitably," was the distinct reply from Joshua.

When Mother Nature once more brought flashing brightness to the room, there lay Don grunting and grimacing on his back, his legs thrown up and spread wide with Joshua leaning over him, hips thrusting. Joshua was shimmering in the light, sweat glistening, panting as the growing passion constricted his chest. His slim arms were now corded with tense strands of muscle. His silver ring swung from its nipple with each thrust, gently taping his chest.

"This ... what ... you ... want?" The question pulsed from between Joshua's smiling lips, matching the rhythm of his body slapping against Don's quivering buttocks.

Between groans, Don gasped a quick reply: "Yes. Oh, fuck, yes!"

After five more ass-humping minutes, Joshua rolled off, tugging Don onto him. Don quickly adjusted, squatting over Joshua in the middle of the bed, lowering himself, stuffing Joshua's slick tool back into its hiding place. Don laced his fingers behind his head, flexed his legs arid began to ride up and down. He eased down the first few times. He found he could accommodate Joshua's full length even when Joshua thrust up to meet his ass on the down stroke. Don began to ride harder. Their bodies slammed and slapped together. Don's face twisted with pain and passion as they mingled and tumbled in his gut. Joshua let his hands ride on Don's bouncing thighs, shoving down when he pushed high with his hips.

Dan's hands came down to rest on Joshua's. Then, with the incessant rubbing of that stiff cock inside him, Don felt a growing pressure and took hold of his cock as it bobbed out over Joshua's belly.

"Do it. Whip that beauty. Let's see you drop one more load," said Joshua.

His voice was less refined, gruff. There was a fiery glint in his eyes. His hips lifted higher, pushed harder as he watched Don stroke away, groaning with the effort.

"Faster, asshole," Joshua demanded, using his hands to urge Don to speed up his bounding butt action. "Faster!" He was yelling now, his own face contorted, nose wrinkled, eyes squinting. "Oh, shit! Shit! Shit! I'm cumming! Blasting your ass! Now! Now!"

Don trembled at the eruption within him. His hand vibrated at a frantic pace on his pulsing dick as it joined in, sewing white creamy strings of cum up and out over Joshua and the bed. Don jerked rigid with each blast, his mouth half open. One long high piercing cry welled out, undulating with each body shivering ejaculation.

Don lay panting, sore, happy. This wasn't turning out to be such a bad vacation after all, he thought. Joshua rolled off the bed, drifted across the room and back. He held out a fresh mug of toddy. Don was woozy enough, but he liked the stuff. He downed it. Deep buzzing snores soon filled the room.

Don woke to an ominous silence. His head ached. His ass ached. His prick was on fire. He had to piss. The door was locked. Where the hell was Joshua, he wanted to know. The storm was over. It was dawn, the sunlight fuzzy through the overcast.

There was silence all around--inside and out. He pushed the curtains aside. Bars on the windows--he checked them all. He grabbed the door knob, shook it, pounded with his fist, yelled for Joshua. Don collapsed on the bed holding his head.

The door swung open. There Don stood. But Don was sitting on the bed. No, this was the model for that picture, the one hanging downstairs. He put his finger to his lips, signaling Don to be quiet. He was dressed all in gray, like Joshua had been when Don first saw him.

"You must leave, today. Don't spend another night here. He's starting to believe you are me. He'll never let me ... you ... go. Just like me, you'll end up here, forever. Leave. Today. Or join me."

The figure turned, closing the door. Don raced across the room and threw open the door. The hallway was empty. Don yelled for Joshua, anybody. His voice echoed through the house. There was no answer.

Don tried doors down the hall, finding the bathroom. Relieved he returned to the bedroom. Where were his clothes? His head was pounding. He stretched out, just for a second, to collect his thoughts.

Don woke with a start. Bright sunlight was streaming through the windows, the curtains billowed in a light breeze. The hall door stood open. His head still ached. He rubbed it. There was a tender egg at the back. He didn't remember falling, hitting his head. The dresser was covered with dust. He wrapped the robe around him and stepped into the hall. Puffs of dust rose from the carpet with each step. Everywhere he looked these was dust--cobwebs filling corners, hanging from empty light fixtures. He raced downstairs, into the sitting room, the dining room, the kitchen. It was all the same. Most of the furniture was hidden under grimy dust covers. The front door stood open. No, it was propped open. He went to look. A beam from the portico lay across the steps. The rest of the structure lay in pieces or hung from over the door.

He found his clothes on a line in the basement. When he came back up he noticed warm ashes in the kitchen cook-stove. But there were no clothes in any closets, no towels, no candles. He dressed hurriedly.

Standing with the maroon rob on his arm, he walked to the table at the back of the entry hall and whipped off the accumulated dust. There were candle drippings all over the top of the table.

Don heard the crunch of tires. He returned to the front door. A van was pulling up with a lookalike for Joshua behind the wheel. But, he was younger--more Don's age, maybe even his junior.

He introduced himself, Dominic Falcone, Joshua's nephew. He owned the house, came to check for storm damage. The house was left to him by his uncle eighteen years ago. Don listened but couldn't comprehend.

"Why'd he give you the house while he's still living in it?" he asked. Dominic gave Don a strange look.

"What do you mean?"

Don told about meeting Joshua--not about the dinner, desert or sex--and mentioned meeting the subject of the painting over the fireplace just this morning, although he hadn't seen Joshua since last night.

"Mr. Pendelfelt, I don't know what happened here, but I assure you, Uncle Josh has been dead and buried for eighteen years. And, that picture. That was my uncle's lover who I was told walked out on him in 1975. Uncle Josh never recovered. I think he actually curled up and died of a broken heart." Dominic looked again at Don, studying him. "You know, you look a lot like Peter," he said. "I had a crush on him when I was in high school. It's amazing how close the resemblance is."

They stood looking at each other. Neither broke the growing silence. Don was captivated, lost in those eyes--flecks of silver floating in the deepest pure violet.

"You go in for body piercing, right," Don said, finally shattering the calm. "Silver, right?"

Dominic grinned. He slowly nodded, then shook his head in wonderment. "Damn ... You better tell me all about last night. Or, show me."

They walked down the hall toward the kitchen. Perched high on the gable over the upstairs master bedroom, a slate gray form spread its wings and lifted into the sky. The sun reflected on its mottled white underside as it soared upward joining the other peregrine, already circling and swooping high overhead in the morning sun.