CENTAURIAN
All Rights Reserved © 2021, Rick Haydn Horst
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
CHAPTER TWO
7:50 PM, June 21st
The jet began to shudder and shake.
“Mr. Adrianus,” said the flight attendant, “we are experiencing some turbulence. May I stow your bag for you, sir?”
She stood over him, the only flight attendant on the private Lear jet, wearing her red uniform and pillbox hat, performing her job as anyone should expect. They had only an hour left of the flight, and the bag in question lay in the window seat beside him. He rested his hand upon it, knowing it contained the dagger given to him by the woman who called herself Happiness, so he felt protective and defensive of it. “This is the second time you have asked me during this flight,” he said, “so for the last time, no, and if you ask me once more, I will fire you.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m merely trying to keep you safe.”
Adrianus gazed up at her, laughed a little with a slight shake of his head. He turned his attention out the window to the sunlit clouds during that last hour before sunset, he recalled years earlier during one of the many times he killed himself off. While on a solo flight, he allowed himself to endure a plane crash, having left all his money to a nonexistent son whose identity he would assume, so he could eventually claim it. By her reflection in the window, he could see the flight attendant hadn’t left his side, he raised the crystal lowball glass in his hand to her. “Just pour me another.”
He had watched the 4K video on the tablet several times. What he found so ironic and galling is that Henri believed he outlived his child, and yet, hundreds of years later, there he sat on a private jet headed to Miami. Over time, he had evolved into the perfect model of a man both lonely and friendless, who had just outlived the father he never knew, while this Ronan person, who Henri knew only a few years, had received all the love and companionship that should have come to Adrianus by birth. He knew Ronan carried no fault for that, but he hated him for it anyway.
In the video, the fire passed from his father to Ronan, after which, Adrianus saw his father fall to ash and the skinny young man lying there for the entire night in that awkward position, undisturbed, unconscious, and unmoving. The next morning, as the sun began to rise and the light level increased enough to see, it showed that Ronan had never moved, but he appeared different from the man his father had placed onto the ground the previous evening. No longer skinny, his body had swollen with muscle, and he seemed taller.
A few minutes before eight that morning, a female jogger of about thirty, dressed in running tights and a t-shirt came upon the man.
She pulled the earbuds from her ears when she stopped. Sounding disgusted, she said, “Oh no, another drunk.” Bending over him a little, she gave his body a closer inspection. “My god, it’s the man from Nantucket.” She knocked at Ronan’s leg with her running shoe. “Hey, you can’t stay here. Get up and move along, will you?” He never moved, so she shook her head in dismay and called the police. She noticed something off-camera, retrieved it, and tried to cover the man’s genitals by scooping them up with the red solo cup she found, but it refused to stay put. With her hand, she pushed down on the cup and attempted to wedge it into place by moving him into an even more awkward position with her foot. A few minutes later two other people loomed over the man, and not long after that, a policeman arrived driving an olive-colored Jeep.
Adrianus noted the license plate, and given an opportune moment, the video had the officer at the perfect angle. He zoomed in and could easily read his name tag, L. Phillips, and his sleeve had a patch stitched with the words The Village of Key Biscayne. He concluded, by the officer’s concern, that he most likely drove him to a hospital. He made an online search and based on the distance, Mercy Hospital seemed most likely, so Adrianus would start there when he could talk to the morning shift.
Thinking of killing the man on the video with his own hands, he thought, “I’m too wealthy to kill someone myself. That’s what money is for!” He couldn’t imagine any hitman agreeing to use the dagger when they probably had their preferred methods, and he wouldn’t know how to acquire a hitman anyway, not that that would present the greatest complication. He accepted what the woman had told him with relative ease because he had lived for hundreds of years. He couldn’t imagine how a mortal not already exposed to anything otherworldly would view the dagger given to him by the woman. He gazed into his glass and stared transfixed istanbul travesti at the single transparent sphere of ice that chilled his drink and the light fog that had settled over his whisky.
After the woman had vanished from his office, he studied the dagger. The metal of its handle and scabbard he had never seen before, but the curiousness of it paled when he unsheathed it. He beheld a transparent blade whose subtle vaporous wisps from the sharpened edges and pointed tip vanished into the air around it, manifesting its ethereal nature.
Waking from his thoughts, he asked himself, “What sort of magic is this?” He lifted the drink the flight attendant had brought him to his mouth and downed it in one gulp, but the thirst of his anxiety remained parched, and he demanded another.
——-
The aptly named lucky fox, Felix Raposo, worked as a bellhop at the luxury boutique hotel on Miami Beach called The Cerulean Sea Hotel and Spa. He had worked there for a year, and not once had anyone mentioned the little side-hustle he had going with the owner/night manager, Mr. Moreno, who covered for him.
The handsome nineteen-year-old of Puerto Rican descent took pride in his considerable abilities and the unblemished, sienna-skinned body that displayed the virile athleticism for which he was known. And by word of mouth alone, new clients gathered to him faster than he could ever have imagined. Monday through Thursday, he could count on having one client a night—two at most. However, from Friday at check-in through Monday morning at checkout, he could have a dozen clients, and many of them stayed at the hotel just for an experience that only Felix seemed capable of providing.
One such client, the math teacher from a local middle school, learned that his best friend, the teacher of English Literature, hadn’t exaggerated in his assessment of him, rewriting and repurposing a famous Shakespearean quote from Hamlet, “What a piece of work is Felix. How solicitous in spirit. How seductive in speech. In form and movement, how capable and confident. In action, how like a lord. And in pleasure, how like a god.”
With the math teacher both contented and fast asleep, Felix took a quick shower, redressed in his cream-colored uniform, pocketed the money left for him on the table by the television, and quietly closed the door behind him. In the elevator to the lobby, he counted the cash and tucked half of it into his wallet. The other half he held in his hand to slip to the owner who crammed it into his pocket before anyone noticed.
Mr. Moreno was not Felix’s pimp. They had a reciprocal arrangement. Mr. Moreno pretended to hire him as a bellhop, and that allowed Felix to hire Mr. Moreno to cover for him with other employees while taking care of a client rather than taking care of someone’s baggage.
Unlike some boutique hotels, The Cerulean Sea Hotel was not a Dadaist’s dream, nor one that, upon entry, screamed MIAMI in a pastel nightmare of neon capital lettering. The Cerulean Sea Hotel had a nature-based décor both stylish and timeless with a serene atmosphere. The lobby’s contemporary modern furniture, based on tried-and-true styles, sat atop mottled, latte-colored marble slabs for flooring. But the spectacle of the monolithic black granite check-in desk with its gravity-defying cantilevered design overshadowed all else.
Standing at the sandstone Bellhop-wall that evening, Felix watched a limousine drive beneath the covered drop-off. He walked to the entrance and when the door attendant opened the car door, a late 20-something man wearing a coal-colored Armani suit exited the vehicle, and he shouldered the satchel he carried.
“May I take your bag, sir?”
The man gripped the strap more tightly. “Just the one in the back.”
The driver had opened the trunk and Felix reached to grab the handle. It was a piece built in an antique style with no wheels, so he knew he would carry it to the man’s room. He stood at a respectful distance while he checked in.
“My name is Elias Adrianus, and I have a reservation,” he said to the night manager.
“Ah, Mr. Adrianus, it’s good to have you with us,” said Moreno checking the computer. “I see you have the Terrace Suite which you will find at the top, on the 12th floor.” He fingered the credit card Adrianus dropped onto the polished-granite counter for incidentals.
“What time does the bar close?”
“It closes at 2 AM, sir.”
When Adrianus returned the credit card to his wallet, he noticed a pale pink business card there he couldn’t remember acquiring and wasn’t there a moment ago. It read, “You don’t need a drink. Wink at the bellhop and let him take care of you” signed Happiness. His insides stiffened, and his hands shook in agitation as he slid it into the wallet alongside the credit card.
“Here are your key cards, sir,” said Moreno, “and if you like, Felix can take you in your suite.”
Adrianus blinked and looked at the night manager in astonishment. istanbul travestileri “What did you say?”
“I said, if you like, Felix can take you to your suite. Have a goodnight, sir.”
“Right…goodnight.”
He turned and raked his eyes over Felix, thinking how he certainly was a handsome young man–young being the operable term, especially compared to his 970 years. They entered the elevator and the moment the doors closed, Adrianus asked, “Is it true that if I wink at you, you’ll take care of me?” He gazed upon Felix awaiting his answer.
“Do you need taken-care-of, sir?”
“Someone believes that I do, apparently. I’ve never been taken-care-of by a man before.”
The lift doors opened to a short cream-wallpapered hallway. They walked to the back corner room. He held the key to the card reader, the door unlocked, and they stepped inside.
The 12th floor consisted of four duplicate terrace suites. A palette of medium and light-colored earth tones filled the enormous room on every wall and surface. It had a kitchen, dining room, sitting room, and a king-sized bed sat before a wall of windows that one could pull back, allowing the terrace—which overlooked the ocean—to blend into the living space.
Felix unfolded the suitcase stand from the closet and laid the case upon it. When he turned around, Adrianus stared at him.
“Who referred you to me?” asked Felix in his lovely Latin accent in his smooth masculine voice. “I have many clients, and they’re all referrals.”
“A woman named Happiness if you can believe it. Clients… So, you charge for your services?”
He removed his hat and tossed it on the table beside him and spoke in a slow, comfortable way that demonstrated his confidence. “Would you expect to enjoy the Bolshoi or Vienna’s philharmonic for free?” He stepped within a foot of him, and stared, without deviation, into the unblinking eyes of Adrianus. “They have dedicated themselves to their artistry, and that requires time and effort. What I do is as consuming and just as artistic, but the dance is far more intimate and the instrument much more beautiful.”
“And just what is the instrument?” asked Adrianus whispering. “Do you make a living playing people like a fiddle?”
He drew closer and Adrianus never backed away. Felix made a rapid glance to his lips, and another, as they came together. “If so, I would play you as one would a Stradivarius, and I assure you, you will want an encore.” Felix kissed him, and his innate sensuality had an alluring, forbidden, seductive power over Adrianus. In all his years, he had never met anyone like Felix.
Adrianus couldn’t imagine why he would allow himself to have sex with the man, but he didn’t care. Lost in the moment, he needed what Felix had to offer, and he had it in abundance. By the time they were on the bed naked, Felix had Adrianus’s cock in his mouth making love to it, and Adrianus had Felix’s in his face. At about 9-inches with a slight upward curve, soft skin, and perfectly hooded, it was the most elegant-looking one he had ever seen. He tasted the clear liquid that flowed from the tip, and he enjoyed its unique flavor. He covered the entire end with his mouth and imitated the motions that Felix used to pleasure him. After about 15 minutes, Felix stopped, turned Adrianus onto his stomach, and lay atop him.
“I’ve never done this,” said Adrianus.
Kissing his ear, Felix rubbed his length along the cleft of his ass. “Shhh…,” he whispered into his ear and continued with the musical metaphor. “Your instrument is in the hands of a virtuoso. I will warm you before the violin bow touches your strings, and while you are only one instrument, when the music starts you will feel an entire symphony, and I promise, you will not want the concert to end.”
Felix enjoyed doing what he knew he did best, plucking a man’s cherry as he plucked his strings to pleasure him. After sliding down his back, he planted his tongue onto his tight pucker, and the more he ate his ass the more the man moaned, arched his back, and relaxed. Once he wet him well, he stopped.
“That was amazing,” said Adrianus.
“The music hasn’t even started. Just allow your body to relax and feel.” He moved upward and rubbed his wet, leaking knob against the opening. Felix kept an erection with no difficulty, and unlike some men with no patience who think pain is always involved the first time, he pushed and pulled at a slow incremental pace, taking many minutes to fully enter him, and the man felt no pain, just steady internal pressure. Once fully inside him, he knew he had leaked enough precum to wet him well, so he said, “And now we begin.” He pulled back slowly and began to thrust in longer and longer strokes. Adrianus had squirmed beneath him, moaning, and making sounds that told Felix he enjoyed it. Before long, he began long-stroking him, and then he varied the length of the stroke and the intensity. Along with a heavy breath, a series of mostly unintelligible travesti istanbul words poured in a pleasure-filled stream from Adrianus’s mouth as he writhed under him for just over an hour, some of which he repeated. Oh. Felix. Yes. More. So good. Don’t stop. Oh my god. When Felix felt the tight squeeze of his cock in a series of rhythmic contractions, he knew the man had an orgasm. When it ended Felix slowed, slid himself deep inside the man, lay atop him, and brought his mouth to his ear. “I wrote that piece just for you. I hope you enjoyed it.” Every few seconds, Felix pulled back a little and slid into him again.
“It was beautiful.” Adrianus laughed, having almost forgotten what it was like to feel happy. “Felix, there is no other word for you; you are magnificent. I had no idea that could feel so incredible.” He turned his head and kissed him. “Can you stay with me tonight? I will understand if you can’t, but I would love for you to stay.”
“I can stay,” he said and kissed him.
“Will you play that song again?”
“I can play it as often as you like.” And once again, Felix began to saw his violin bow against the man’s Stradivarian strings, playing an exquisite melody that vibrated throughout the man’s body, but only Felix heard the music as the instrument vocalized his pleasure.
——-
June 22nd
Phillips had kept an eye on Stallion the previous evening, watching him grow slow enough to find it on par with the speed at which paint dries. So, while he could have more interest in Stallion than drying paint, the passing hours caused the act of remaining conscious too heavy a burden. A foggy haze had drawn his mind ever deeper into a need for slumber with eyes that wouldn’t stay open or focused and just before he faded for the evening, he had laid his hand on Stallion’s arm, semiconsciously thinking that would be enough.
Having deactivated the alarm on his phone the previous evening, Phillips awoke the next morning at 8 o’clock, and the first thing he noticed was a muscular arm over him and the realization that Stallion was spooning him. He backed away a little as he turned over.
The color of the man’s slightly tousled midnight-brown hair began a theme for all the rest as Liam’s eyes took in what he could see of him. Thick, dark lashes surrounded the depth of his kind and fully awake, cognac-colored eyes. His prominent jaw held a well-kempt beard, and his pectorals, densely packed with an armor of muscle, had a hairy covering across their broadness and in the deep crevice between them which spilled down his abdominals and disappeared under the covers. Gauntlets of hair on his forearms faded at the elbow on their way to his cannonball biceps with their mountainous peaks leading to shoulders so thick and meaty, it looked like he could easily give Atlas a break for a long liquid lunch.
The godlike man gazed in benevolence and smiled upon Phillips for the first time. “Ah, that’s what you look like.”
“How long have you lain awake?” Phillips couldn’t recall a time when a man that beautiful ever shared his bed.
“I’m not sure, you don’t have a regular clock.” He stopped smiling for a moment and spoke in seriousness. “Thank you for protecting me, cleaning me up, and not giving me the silent treatment.”
“Oh, so you could hear me, good. Just who and what are you?” he asked in apprehension.
“Since you’re my protector, I owe you an explanation, but apart from my name, all the rest is between you and me. Okay?
“Okay…”
“My name is Ronan Stallion. I am Centaurian. To put it simply, I am part who I was and part life essence of Chiron the Centaur, bound by an eternal fire gifted by Prometheus.”
Phillips nodded. “Of course, and if given a few more waking hours, I could have figured that out all on my own.”
Ronan laughed a little. “I want you to know that I’m not here to harm anyone, but you intuitively know that; don’t you?”
“I don’t know how, but yes, somehow, I know that. Why are you here?”
“Zeus held Prometheus captive and horrifically tortured him. So, in an act of empathy, when a particular situation occurred with a centaur named Chiron, he gave up his immortality to set Prometheus free. Prometheus, the prescient and skillful thief that he is, felt grateful and captured Chiron’s essence in an eternal flame, and then hid it from the Olympians inside the first of us, a Neo-Centaurian he named Epivítoras; that’s Greek for Stallion. After one thousand years Chiron and the fire must transfer to someone of the current Centaurian’s choosing. The millenniums passed and after Epivítoras came Hrb’eh (That is Hebrew for Stallion), then came Admissārius (that is Latin for Stallion), and then my friend Henri Estalon (Estalon is old French for Stallion), and now there’s me. I exist to give Chiron a kind of life that he would otherwise have lost. Prometheus saw that Chiron was too special to lose and his life too precious. However, what Prometheus did, no one had ever done, and he created something far more that has no name.”
“What is the more?”
“It had given us a power that the others were too afraid to tap into, and I can see why.” Ronan tipped his head in curiosity. “You’re taking all this rather easily.”