Title: Cruising

Author: A_Valon ([email protected])

Website: no site

Rating: NC-17

Pairing/main characters: Magneto/Gambit

Series/Sequel: complete

Summary: Slash. An older gentleman goes for a drive and finds a Cajun companion . . .

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Marvel, but the idea is mine. I'm not receiving any payment for this story, so please don't sue me. I have nothing of value. It would be a tremendous waste of time, effort, and money.

Warning: This story is intended for mature readers. It contains mature subject matter and explicit descriptions of sexual acts between two consenting adults. If you are offended by such material, if you are under the legal age to read such material in your jurisdiction, or if it is illegal for you to view and/or read adult-oriented fiction in your jurisdiction, then DO NOT read further. If you continue, you accept responsibility for your own actions.

Notes: As always, feedback is welcome. If you like the story, great. If you don't, that's fine, too. I write the stories I need to tell. This is my blessing. This is my curse! :)

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Cruising

By A_Valon

 

He felt like a criminal. His pulse raced as fast as the engine of the late-model luxury car he drove. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, on his face. He gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. His breaths were shallow and ragged. People and lights blurred by him, but he paid them no attention. Nothing outside the car mattered to him at that moment, no person, no place, no dream.
He was free.
Not that he was a prisoner. It wasn't like that at all. If anything, he counted himself among the truly fortunate. He had a lovely home, and a worthy goal. He also had a group of people around him who were devoted to him, and to his life's work. It was just that they occasionally tried to keep him from harm by putting him in a sort of 'ivory tower'. He understood that, knew they only wanted to shield him from the harshness of the world. They loved him, the Lord knew he had already suffered enough for twenty lifetimes. Tonight, though, he wanted to be among the living, to be out in the world. So, he left while no one was looking. It was surprisingly easy. He would have to discuss improving their security measures . . . after tonight. Tonight was his.
Oh yes, he was free.
And he planned on enjoying himself to the fullest.
He stopped the car at a red light. Crowds of people milled up and down the sidewalks. He turned right and drove up a side street. Nightclubs, bars, and massage parlors lined both sides of the narrow road. Neon signs advertised entertainment of all sorts. The driver had been here before. He slowed and cruised past, scanning the crowds. He was a mutant, a genetically evolved human, whose gift allowed him to tune into individuals. He was looking for someone who stood above the rest.
He licked the sweat from his upper lip surprised at its saltiness. He allowed each person's unique signatures to enter his consciousness, but he rejected each of them. None had what he wanted. Inside the car, panic surged through him. What if he didn't find what he was looking for? What if his 'keepers' discovered he was gone and came after him? How would he explain himself? The man in the car looked at every face he could discern in the fluorescent rainbow of light. No one stood out. Just a mass of nameless people who dressed alike, acted alike. The driver wanted a person whose uniqueness jumped out and slapped him in the face.
Then, he felt The One.
A young man stood on the right-hand corner of the street, going southbound. He leaned against the brick wall of an adult bookstore. The driver's breath caught in his throat. This was the kind of person he had left the confines of his home to see. He drove toward the young man's corner and pulled the car in close to the curb. He idled the engine.
That close, the young man looked even more spectacular. He was tall and thin with a mop of long hair that looked brown in the streetlight and fell over a pair of sunglasses. He wore a pair of faded black jeans torn in several places. An open black leather jacket hung on broad shoulders. Despite the cold, the young man was bare chested. Every so often, he shifted his position a little to give the passers by a glimpse of his torso.
He's obviously a prostitute, thought the driver.
He watched as the hustler puffed on a cigarette. He lowered the front passenger window of the car and waved the young man over. After a second's hesitation, the young man stamped out the smoke on the pavement and approached the car.
The driver turned off the classical music station. The leather jacket creaked as the young man leaned into the car and rested his arms on the door frame. Leather, smoke, rum, and the scent of young manhood washed over the driver.
"Evenin', Sir," the hustler said.
"Good evening to you, young man."
"You lookin' for any particular fun this evenin'?"
The boldness of the question surprised the driver. No doubt the hustler had asked that question many times, and was confident in his abilities. The sound of his voice, accented with the distinct intonation and flavor of southern Louisiana, made the driver's head spin.
"Y . . .y . . .yes I am, as a matter of fact," he replied. "I'm looking for someone to spend some time with."
The young man's mouth drew up at one corner. "Pass some time? What do dat mean? I ain't no nanny, chere," he said, backing away from the window. "Perhaps you lookin' for somet'in' dat Remy, he don' supply."
"No, Wait!"
Remy approached again. "Oui?" he asked.
"I'm sorry. Forgive me. It's just that I have never done this kind of thing before," the driver said.
The wry smile returned. "Sure, chere, anyt'in' you say," the hustler said, scratching his nose. "Now what you want? French? Greek? De whole package?"
He makes it sound like I'm making dinner reservations, the driver thought. "I assume you're referring to the kind of . . ."
"Sex, chere, yes," Remy interrupted. He looked at the back of his hand. "I ain't no travel agent, me."
The driver flushed red. "I suppose I deserved that," he conceded. "How much would it cost me for the 'whole package', as you put it?"
"Hundred an' fifty, but I don' do no kink. You into dat garbage, you go somewhere else, okay? Ain't no 'mount o' money worth dat."
"That's a little steep," the driver said, raising his eyebrows.
"Remy, he wort' dat an' more, chere. He de finest piece on de whole Gulf Coast."
It was the driver's turn to smile. "That remains to be seen, however," he said.
Remy let out a long sigh. "Listen, Jean, you buyin' or not? I got bills t' pay. If you ain't interested, den make room for payin' customers."
"All right, all right. Get in," the driver snapped.
Remy wasted no time entering the car. He looked around the interior and whistled. "Fancy set o' wheels you got here, homme," he said. "You mus' be rollin' in it."
"You could say that," the older man said. He pulled out into the street and drove. Buildings and people flew by. He fought the urge to find a deserted spot, pull over, and take the prostitute into the back seat. Although desire clouded his thoughts, he would find the traditional motel room first. It was more dignified.
"I have never seen you before," he said, trying not to dwell on his arousal.
"Non. Jus' arrive dis mornin'."
"You're from Louisiana, aren't you?"
"New Orleans."
The car pulled off into the parking lot of the Slumberville Motel. A sign flashed "Vacancy" in blue light. The two men got out and entered the office. It was tiny and cluttered with furniture that looked as if it were seconds shy of collapsing into ruin. A rotary phone rested on a plastic milk crate. A small black and white TV played a rerun of a variety show from the 1970's. The clerk, a balding overweight man in a grey muscle shirt, sat behind the desk and looked up as they came in.
"Good evening," the driver said, smiling. "My companion and I have been driving all day and we'd like a room for a couple of hours. To take a nap before continuing on our trip."
The clerk looked at him as if he were speaking an unknown language. He looked at Remy. A lascivious grin spread across his face. "Yeah, sure, Pops," he chimed, "I get yer drift. That'll be 50 bucks."
The driver blinked. "But we won't be here all night," he protested.
"Don't matter. That's the minimum charge. Take it or leave it."
"I suppose I don't have a choice," the driver said. He took out his wallet and put the bills on the counter. The clerk took the money and handed him a key. "Room 15," he said.
"Thank you," the driver said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Don't mention it," the clerk shot back. He looked at Remy and licked his lips. "Have a nice time!" he called out as the walked down the hall, laughing after them.
The driver shuddered inwardly. He detested vulgarity and some people were just too coarse for his taste. Opening the door, he turned on the light switch. The room proved to be as immaculate as the office. A bare light bulb hung from a chain in the ceiling. Wallpaper that had once been white hung like parchment on the walls. The places were it had been ripped off exposed the brown paper on the drywall beneath it.
He looked around. The room boasted a double bed and a press board chest of drawers with an ancient TV on it. The older man sat on the bed, sinking down immediately as the mattress sagged with the weight. He heard the door lock click and watched Remy approach him.
"Could you give me a hand, young man?"
"Pas de problem la," Remy said and pulled him back to a sitting position. "Undress me," the driver said. As the younger man opened the buttons of his suit jacket, the driver noticed that the hustler's hair was actually auburn and not brown as it had originally appeared. He reached out and took some of the strands between his fingers. They were silken to his touch.
"Lie back, M'sieur," Remy said.
The driver hesitated for a moment. He was used to giving orders, not taking them. Still, he did as he was told. It excited him a little, the idea of being a follower instead of a leader. Deft fingers opened his belt, undid the button, and slid down the zipper. He felt his pants slip down over his hips and knees. The young man undid his shoes and removed them along with his socks. Cold air made him shiver as his pants were thrown to the floor. A hand squeezed his penis through the silk of his boxer shorts, as if testing its strength. He moaned through clenched teeth.
"Let's get dis show an de road den, homme," Remy purred.
The Cajun took his john's hands and pulled him up into a sitting position on the bottom edge of the bed. The driver watched in rapt attention as the waistband of his underwear was pulled down, freeing his erection. Long hair brushed against his washboard stomach and he felt Remy's mouth close around his penis. The warmth and wetness encapsulated him in pleasure. He had to force down a scream which threatened to erupt from his throat. He watched the bobbing motion of the young man's head. Occasionally, it stopped so Remy could tease and swirl the head, length, and base of the shaft with the tip of his tongue. He allowed this to continue for a few minutes before he gently but firmly pushed Remy off him.
"That, young man, is quite enough of that," he said, "I have other plans for the rest of our time together."
Remy nodded and flashed a knowing smile. He reached into a pocket in his coat and threw some condoms and a tube of lubricant on the soiled bedspread. "Know how to use dem?" he asked. "'Cause Remy, he don' turn no trick wit'out dem."
"Quite a sensible policy, my young friend," the other man answered. "And I assure you I am more than familiar with their proper use."
Remy let out an exasperated sigh. "If dat's a 'yes' den you can get youself ready while Remy undress," he said. He sat down on the side of the bed and pulled off his scuffed cowboy boots and socks. He stood up and took of the jacket before he undid the jeans and stepped out of them. He wore no underwear. Probably to save time the driver thought. The young man stretched out his full length on the bed, his knees slightly bent. In the meantime, the other man had donned the 'raingear', as some of his students called them, and had turned to sit sideways on the bed. Sunglasses turned toward him.
"Ready when you are, chere," Remy said, his voice tinted with an intoxicating mixture of insolence and lust.
The other man wasted no time. He lay down beside the Louisianan. He propped himself up on an elbow and appraised the body next to his. "You're certainly beautifully formed," he said.
"Je sais. Now, you jus' gonna look?"
"No, Remy, looking is the last thing on my mind at this moment," he said. He knelt up Remy slid over next to him. He positioned himself between the younger man's legs and rested his knees on his shoulders. In an instant, mists of pleasure clouded his mind again, but this time, there was no holding back.
* * * * * * *
When it was over, the two men spooned together in the tangled, dampened sheets. It was by far the most intense sexual experience the older man had ever had. Sensations he never knew existed flooded his brain, his body. He reached down and traced Remy's long member with his index finger.
"What about you?" he asked.
"Ain't part o' de deal, M'sieur," Remy answered. He reached up under the sunglasses and wiped some sweat from the side of his nose.
"Why didn't you take off the sunglasses when we were. . ."
"Got weak eyes," the Cajun replied. He stood up and picked up his clothes. "De light hurts dem."
"I see," the john said. He watched long muscles ripple as the Cajun got dressed. "May I see them?"
Remy turned around and looked at him. "Quoi?"
"Your eyes."
"Non, Monsieur. S'il vous plaït."
"I'll pay you extra."
Remy hesitated, as if considering the offer. "Why you want to see dem, hein?" he asked. Fear tinged his voice.
"I have some experience in dealing with people who have special . . . problems."
"You pay Remy more?"
"Yes."
"D'accord. But Remy, he wan' all de money you owe him up front."
After Remy finished dressing, the older man pressed five fifty dollar bills in his hand. Remy put the money in his pocket, sat down on the bed and took off the sunglasses.
"Look at me, Remy. I won't hurt you. I get the feeling you've been hurt quite enough."
Slowly, Remy turned toward the other man and looked at him. His eyes were a swirling mix of crimson and black, like pools of lava. In spite of himself, the older man gasped.
"Remarkable. I've never seen anything quite like them."
Remy barked a bitter laugh. "Not really. Only give people a reason to beat on me. Dey says I'm evil, dat dese eyes be de mark o' de Devil," he said. He stood up again and leaned on the wall.
"No, Remy, they're wrong. I believe you're a mutant."
Confusion clouded the Cajun's beautiful face. "What's dat, den?"
"A mutant is a person born with special abilities - powers - most people don't have," the other man replied.
"You sound like some sort o' teacher."
"I am, in a way," he said. "I often take in mutants who have suffered at the hands of those who don't understand them. Together, we strive to build a better world."
The young hustler put his hands in his coat pockets. "Sometimes, when Remy hold t'ings, dey start to glow . . . an' sometimes dey blow up." He drew his lips down in a frown. Even that gesture was exquisite.
The older man sat up. "You have a great gift. It's nothing to be ashamed of. You just don't know how to use it properly," he said, pulling on his clothes. "I can help you."
"Remy don' need no help, chere. He get along fine on his own."
"You plan on selling yourself for the rest of your life?"
"Plenty o' people willin' to buy," he replied. "Includin' you, if you remember."
"Given, but that's hardly a good use of your life, Remy."
"Yeah, well, you jus' go on an' do your t'ing. I'll keep doin' mine, okay?"
The other man sighed. "If that's what you want. I cannot force you to take my offer," he said.
They quickly left the room and slipped out of the hotel. The clerk grinned like a wolf when the driver returned the key. "Have a good time, pops?" he asked.
"Yes."
The clerk looked at Remy again. "I just bet you did."
He didn't respond to that. Inside, he felt a wave of compassion for the young man next to him. That type of comment was something he had probably heard from an early age, a sad but all too often true circumstance of life on the streets. He'd seen it before from others he had taken under his wing. Sometimes, it felt that a city truly was a jungle, as the old saying went, complete with its own predators and prey.
They drove back in silence. The driver wanted Remy to hear, to understand, to accept his offer. But he knew there was no chance. This was the life the Cajun knew, hell that it might be to outsiders, and he was too afraid to change it, no matter what the risks.
The car stopped on Remy's corner. The younger man got out of the car and turned back to the driver.
"Au revoir, M'sieur," he said, "An' merci for de offer, but you know I can' . . ."
"Yes, I know, Remy," he interrupted. "Take care of yourself."
"Always have, chere, always will."
The driver watched as dark red hair disappeared into the crowd. He sighed and checked the time. Three hours had passed. He had to get back home before his protégés discovered his absence. He put the car into gear and cruised down the wet street.
* * * * * * *
As he curled up in his bed, safely at home with no one the wiser, he reviewed the events of the evening. It had been money well spent. Remy was a skilled tradesman, and it was better for a man in his position to avoid the entanglements of relationships and relieve his urges in other ways. But he was still troubled. The Cajun was just the sort of young mutant who needed his help: someone alone in the world who knew too well the harsh realities of life. All Remy needed was a direction, a focus.
A dream.
A soft knock interrupted his musings.
"Yes? What is it?"
"Is everything all right, Sir?"
"I'm fine, thank you. You can go on to bed."
He heard the person's footsteps echo down the hall. Then, using the awesome power that was his birthright, Erik Magnus Lehnsherr used his control over the force of magnetism to flip the metal light switch. He slept in his dark 'ivory tower' and dreamt of a young crimson-eyed American man with a French name. In his sleep, Magneto smiled. Freedom was a wonderful thing.

 

END