By: Walker Davis & Ryan Michaels
The Deauville was a broken down hotel smack dab in the middle of Center City, which isn't saying much. In that part of the country anyplace where two roads cross has the makings of a town. Throw in a gas station, a diner serving greasy food and maybe a store for provisions and you've got a town — add a name with the word 'city' in it, and it's a city.
Center City lay somewhere between Abilene and the rest of the world; it sat out in the middle of the flat, Texas scrub like a carbuncle on a smooth back, waiting for something exciting to happen — which never did. No one seemed to remember why Center City got started, and no one seemed to care now why it kept going. But, like so many people who drifted down its dusty streets, it just didn't have the sense to die.
If you grew up in this part of the world you got out as fast as you could, heading towards Galveston or Houston or sometimes even towards Dallas. If you didn't come from Center City that meant you were just passing through and, after shelling out a couple of bucks for gas, the place was no more a memory than was being born.
The Deauville had been around as long as Center City and still sported its first coat of paint. It was a weather beaten building that creaked in a strong wind and stayed wet from a downpour for a couple of days. Originally it was built to house the crews of oil companies who flooded West Texas looking for black gold. The oil boom came and went inside a couple of months and with it went the men. The building then became a cheap hotel and restaurant, serving the greasiest food west of the Pecos, so it was said locally.
When that failed, The Deauville just sat there in the middle of town, its two stories with the false front towering over the rest of the buildings on Main Street like some king presiding over his court. The men from the oil company who had run it stayed on, somehow keeping the place running, somehow keeping it open for travelers or locals who'd had too much to drink on their nights off.
No one actually knew how The Deauville managed to stay open; it seemed no one ever went in or out of the place, but there were rumors. The name used to come up out on the ranches after dinner when a big meal had made the men's bellies full and their tongues loose. They said you could have sex in any shape or form in The Deauville day or night. Just ask for room 1612, they'd say, and the secrets of the hotel were yours. Hank Throp had heard the stories for years but had never paid a lot of mind to them. In this part of the country you heard a lot of stories about a lot of strange things.
Hank was twenty eight, and had been born and bred in a Center City-like town of his own over in Oklahoma. He'd moved to Texas when he was twenty two because he felt it was manlier to be from Texas. Hank stood just over six feet tall and his body and muscles were nicely formed from working on a ranch day after day. His brown hair was almost always covered by a Stetson, making him look like a genuine Texas cowboy, and his blue eyes shone from his face like mountain lakes at sunrise.
Hank didn't mess with anyone. He did his job, earned his money and now and again went into Califax to get laid. He had never dreamt his life would fall into this routine, but then he had never really dreamt about his life at all, so what he was given was enough. His dreams only happened at night when he was asleep and usually by daybreak they were gone. Hank only wanted food and rest and a sexual release from his aching nuts once or twice a month or so. He never jacked off because he didn't consider it manly, and he always wore a rubber when he fucked the whores in Califax because he didn't want to get a disease.
Somewhere around eight o'clock on this particular night, the temperature dipped down to eighty three, the coolest it had been all day. High, black clouds like thick clouds of rich soil scudded along the darkened sky foretelling a storm that, like so many in these parts, might never come. Hank wiped his brow with his right hand while his left held tightly to the wheel of the jeep. Shit, it was hot! He'd busted his ass all day long mending some fence off in the northeast corner of the ranch. Thinking of a fistful of cold beers was the only thing that had kept him there working. Now, driving into Center City, Hank could almost taste that first cold one washing the dust from his mouth and throat.
Almost as soon as the flickering lights of Dora's Diner came into view Hank was out of the jeep and seated at his favorite booth slurping down a cool, crisp Coors like it was mother's milk. The diner still smelled of the evening's last batch of French fries, but there was something about it that was real homey. Dora herself looked like every grandmother south of the Mason-Dixon Line and treated everyone like a favorite child. What her cooking lacked in taste, Dora made up for in motherly charm and good humor.
Hank drank his way through a river of good beer and was just settling in for a while when the rain came. It started so softly that no one heard it hitting the aluminum roof of Dora's at all. Then it got up a full head of steam and the sound became like a drum roll across the roof. Hank looked gloomily out the window, watching several months' worth of dirt loosen and drain away in the rain. Shit, the jeep was parked out back, open to the weather; he'd be a drowned dog by the time he got back to the ranch.
"Hey, bubba," Dora called out to Hank affectionately, "looks like you're in for some ride home. Hope you brought along some rubbers to fit your feet, too," she said lewdly, then broke out into a fit of laughter that rocked the diner.
"Don't worry 'bout me, Dora. I'm so wet inside, hardly matters how I get on the outside," Hank replied as he raised a beer in salute.
Twenty minutes later the rain still droned on. Hank stood up unsteadily and paid the bill, over-tipping Dora by nearly two bucks. "Take care, Dora," he called out as he made his way to the door.
"You drive careful, you hear?" Dora shot after him. "It's a bitch outside. Don't want to read about you in the papers."
"I will, Dora. Goodnight," Hank waved, and then he stepped out into the rain.
The wind whipped across the flatlands like a crazed steer on the run. There was no hiding from it. Hank ducked his head low but the wind caught hold of his hat and ripped it from his head. Since there was no use in trying to get it, Hank staggered to the jeep, found his keys and gave it a try. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. The points had gotten wet in the storm. Shit!
He was about to go back to Dora's to ask if she'd mind a guest for the night in one of her booths, when Hank saw the lights of The Deauville blinking at him between the rain drops. He stopped in his tracks, ignoring the rain. Unconsciously he slipped his hand into his pocket and began to massage his heavy balls as he thought about those rumors, and how it had been nearly three weeks since he'd cum. A dull ache quickly started throbbing in his groin, and he suddenly found himself making his way quickly through the rain to the front porch of the old hotel.
Hank never expected he'd spend the night at The Deauville any more than he had expected he'd live in Center City for six years, and, after convincing himself that the rumors were true, he hoped that no one had seen him go inside the place. He just didn't want his personal needs to be known all over town — there were some things a man needed to keep private, and needing pussy was one of them.
The lobby of The Deauville smelled of dust and decay and lemon wax. Hank shook himself off on a very tired Oriental rug and looked around. The lobby was surprisingly grand; tall palm trees were scattered about among the heavy velvet covered pieces of furniture; there were spittoons near each chair and old magazines and newspapers on the tables; gas lights flickered and swayed in the dusky light.
Behind the desk a tall, thin, balding man stood staring at Hank. He smiled. "Help you, son?" he queried.
"I got caught in the rain," Hank replied uncomfortably.
"It came a gully-washer, that's for sure," the man said quickly. "Need a room?"
Hank nodded.
"Any special room?" he asked, the tone of his voice changing just slightly.
"I hear room 1612 is pretty good," he said, the color rising to his cheeks.
"That it is," the man grinned. "Just sign in and you'll be on your way." The clerk watched Hank sloppily sign his name, and then said, "Here's the key. There's the stairs. 1612 is on the first floor."
Hank took the key and headed for the stairs. At the first floor he walked down the hallway peering at the numbers: 1609, 1610, 1611, and finally, there it was — room 1612. Hank inserted the key in the lock and turned the door. It opened into total darkness. He felt the walls for a switch, but there was none, only the cold, clammy feel of age and decay.
Hank stepped into the darkness, both hands stretched out at his sides, both hands touching a wall — he was in a hallway. He moved now, slowly, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. The darkness enveloped him like a cloak, wrapping itself around him, drawing him in deeper. He moved forward, going further into the heart of the darkness, hearing only the sounds of his footsteps and his heavy breathing.
Further along there was a glimmer of light to the right. Hank edged towards it, feeling along the wall. The light grew brighter until it gushed into the darkness through the frame of a door — an unopened door. Hank quickened his pace, until finally he stood at the door. Slowly, he reached out and turned the knob, and then cautiously opened the door. A dazzling light from within the room shone out into the darkness, momentarily blinding him.
"Come on in. Sit down a spell," a voice called out to him.
"Who's there?" Hank asked, shielding his eyes from the light.
