The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Last Photograph

by Wrestlr

1.

In the photograph, my brother stands second from the left. He came here with a group of his friends. He’d saved his money all year to be able to spend his summer break roaming around South America with his friends, seeing the continent like the residents did, before they headed back to college in the fall. At least, that was the plan.

The photo shows my brother and all five of his traveling friends. They must have gotten someone else to take the picture. In the photograph, they must have just gotten off the boat in this God-forsaken backwater coastal village. They were two weeks into their trip, and a couple of them already had the patchy beards and scraggly hair that college-age backpackers and hostel-stayers aspire to. They’re all wearing shorts, flip-flops, and backpacks—shirtless, smiling, squinting against the sun, setting off on the next leg of their summer adventure. At least, that was the plan. But no plan ever turns out quite as expected.

My brother emailed the photo to our mother, attached to a brief Having a blast, don’t worry, love you message. She forwarded it to me. That was a month ago. That email message was the last time any of us heard from him.

Me, I left the United States Army a few days ago. Special Forces. I did a lot of tours of duty I can’t talk about. I loved the Army, but I loved my kid brother too. Somebody had to go look for him.

That’s how I came to be in this backwater village, with all my worldly possessions—the few that weren’t in storage back home—packed in my duffel bag. There’s some tourism here, a few small hotels, but mostly there’s just the people who live here and the beach. I couldn’t afford the hotels. I could sleep on the beach. If anyone tried to mess with me?—Well, the Army trained me well.

How was I going to find him? That part I was making up as I went.

The local police were no help. Backpacks, clothes, cell phones—all their gear was found abandoned on the beach, just a klick or two north of where I sat right then. It wasn’t robbery, the police said. My brother and his buddies just left all their belongings and vanished. Six Americans go kapoof into nothing? I wasn’t buying it. Someone had to know something.

I’d been there nearly a week. The village wasn’t that big. I’d quizzed nearly every resident in just a couple of days, waving around the print-out of that last photograph, asking the same damned questions: “Have you seen any of them? When? Where?” Some people thought they looked familiar, but nobody much remembered a clutch of tourist kids from nearly a month ago. Tourists were disposable, hardly worth noticing unless they were waving money, then quickly forgotten once the money was spent. One man told me he remembered them—they asked directions to a bar. Another said he told them where to find the local cat house. Just the sort of things you’d expect a bunch of nineteen- or twenty-year-old college fuckheads on summer break to be interested in, and just the sort of dead ends that would’ve had me pulling my hair out if it weren’t still too Army-short to grip.

I slept on the beach, a couple of klicks north of the town. I bathed and shaved in the ocean, but I still had to buy food unless I wanted to spend all day fishing and scavenging, which wouldn’t leave any time for my search. And I was just about out of money.

There was a small resort hotel on the beach, on the northeast corner of town. Sometimes tourists drifted as far north as where I was camping, just walking the beach or looking for a private patch of sand with no one around. They heard about this town or maybe read about the area in some travel magazine article about locations unspoiled by tourism and came looking for the authentic native experience or some happy horseshit like that. But they were usually pretty damned happy just to be able to get a cold beer and a cheeseburger at the hotel, so they never drifted this far north for long.

Late afternoon, after another fruitless day of looking for clues.

I’d finished a swim in the ocean and flopped on the sand to dry, near where I’d stashed my duffel bag. The water was perfect; it was always perfect. A couple of swimsuited tourists, both men, had set up a little towel-and-cooler operation about fifty yards south of me. They probably were tourists from the hotel. I nodded, they nodded back, and we proceeded to ignore each other.

A while later, the brown-haired one in the red swimsuit walked over, offered me a bottle of beer, introduced himself as Mikhail in a Russian accent. “Call me Mick.”

I accepted his beer and introduced myself: Peter. “Pietro,” Mick said, smiling, converting my name to the Russian version. Pretty soon, his bleach-blond buddy in the madras-checked swim trunks came over too. He introduced himself as Pedro—nothing too unusual about that in South America, but his accent was pure Brooklyn. They were tourists from New York City.

We talked about baseball, football—“American football, too slow,” Mick sniffed, but he knew all the teams and admitted a fondness for whoever was beating the crap out of the Dolphins any particular week. At some point Pedro hauled their cooler over to my spot. I pegged them at around their mid-twenties, same as me. At some point, I also pegged them as gay, and definitely more than friends. Maybe it was their gym-bunny bodies. Maybe it was when they asked me if I wanted to have sex with them. I said no and told them I’m happily heterosexual. The rejection didn’t seem to bother them. They just nodded.

They told me about how they met as graduate students in NYU’s film department, how in the fall they planned to start filming a project of their own, about a beautiful but fiery Latin dancer from Brooklyn who falls in love with an equally headstrong Russian businessman-cum-gangster. They’re pleased with the amount of gunfire and explosions their film will contain. When they found out I had just left the Special Forces, they asked a lot of questions about guns and explosions—“For our project’s authenticity,” Mick said. That’s how I spent the rest of the afternoon talking and drinking beer on the beach with the Russian named Mikhail who liked to be called “Mick” and the Latin named Pedro from Brooklyn.

The more outgoing one, Mick, asked if I was staying at the hotel. I told him no, that I was sleeping on the beach not far from there. When he asked why, I told him the short version about my search for my brother and my dwindling funds. “You must come back to hotel with us,” Mick said. “Eat a good dinner at the restaurant, our treat.” They won’t take no for an answer. Mick leaned in and whisper-assured me, “No strings; just dinner.” I had no plans, I had to make the trek back to the town anyway for food, and a dinner I didn’t have to cook, pay for, or scrounge for sounded good. I accepted their invitation.

I wasn’t worried. If their offer turned out to have strings after all?—Well, for the U.S. Army Special Forces I was a mad-dog killer and well-trained in hand-to-hand. I was pretty sure I could defend myself from the advances of a pair of New York film students.

They insisted I order the steak, and it was delicious. They asked more about my search for my brother, what he was like, had he ever done anything like this before, what did the police say, had I quizzed all the locals yet—and what about our waiter Lucas, with whom they’d been flirting some, had I quizzed him yet?

The waiter, friendly, a young, good-looking guy who probably was about eighteen or maybe nineteen, around my brother’s age, didn’t look familiar, and I said so. He was heading our way with our latest round of drinks. “The photograph, let me show it to him,” Pedro said. I was feeling a little sloppy from the beer. I pulled out the printout of that last group photo, unfolded it, smoothed it out on the tabletop.

Pedro asked the waiter in Spanish. My Spanish is good, but Pedro spoke like a native—even his Brooklyn accent disappeared. The waiter finished distributing our drinks, then frowned at the photograph. He said, yes, he remembered them, maybe a month ago—which would be about the right time frame. He remembered because they stayed here at the resort, were boisterous and loud, drank a lot, tipped well. He always remembered the good tippers, in case they came back. Mick and Pedro exchanged a knowing look.

Did the waiter know where they went? Yes, he had told the boys about some old ruins in the jungle to the north, maybe a day’s hike away. Few tourists went there. Out of the way. Difficult to reach, but very nice. Rumored to be haunted by the spirits of the original natives who built it. Only the locals knew of it. He was sure they had gone there. Could he give us directions, maybe arrange for a guide?—We’d be willing to pay, of course, Pedro assured him. And we’d be very grateful, Mick added, also in perfect Spanish. Very, very grateful. There was no mistaking the look he gave Lucas.

We? Pay? Pedro and Mick were going too far. I didn’t have the money to pay for anything that wasn’t essential, and I didn’t remember making my investigation into some Scooby Doo Mystery Tour to supposedly haunted ruins accompanied by a couple of tourists I’d just met.

The waiter smirked, trying to smile. Well, certainly, he would be happy to take us there. He had tomorrow off, and he had a truck, could drive us there himself, most of the way anyway. He knew a back road that ran near there, then the trip could be finished on foot. Cut the trip down to just a couple of hours, plenty of time left over to enjoy the sights if we found no trace of the brother. He would be happy to do this—for the right fee, of course. There was no mistaking his meaning.

I whispered, “Uh, Mick, I don’t have much money. Just ask him for directions.”

Mick waved me away and continued haggling with Lucas over the fee. They agreed on a number. They agreed on a time—meet in front of the resort at eight in the morning. Mick handed over cash, payment for dinner, a tip, and a sizeable deposit in advance for “guide services” so Lucas could buy gasoline for the trip. Lucas slipped away, obviously happy with the arrangements.

“So it is settled,” Pedro said to me in English, Brooklyn accent back in full force. “You will stay the night with us. Our room has a sofa that pulls out to a spare bed. Tomorrow, we go look for your brother.”

I made my excuses. This was too much; they didn’t have to do this; I could find the ruins on my own. No need to inconvenience them.

No inconvenience, Mick assured me. It makes perfect sense, he said. No need to trudge all the way back to the beach, then all the way back here the next morning. Better to just stay here on their spare bed. They had more booze in their mini bar; we could continue drinking. And there were adult movies.

I knew what they wanted. I was about to remind them I was heterosexual when Mick added, No strings, and Pedro nodded. Just new friends enjoying some beer and porn before a good night’s sleep.

I knew what they wanted. I wasn’t drunk enough to go as far as they wanted, but I decided it wouldn’t hurt to let them watch. And I did owe them from bringing in another possible lead.

In their room, Mick hit the mini-bar, and Pedro turned on the television. “You like blondes, yes?” he asked me. He navigated his way expertly through the onscreen selections, and seconds later, on the screen a woman and her made-for-porn tit job were climbing out of a barely there bikini and into a hot tub. Mick put a tumbler of vodka in my hand—“cheap American crap, like piss next to even the worst Russian vodka,” he complained. I settled down on the couch, carefully taking up too much room for them to join me, to watch the screen and do my part.

Mick and Pedro took their drinks to the king-sized tourist bed. I kicked off the shoes I’d put on before dinner, and peeled off my tee-shirt. I stuck my hand into my jeans and massaged my genitals. My eyes were locked on the screen, where the blonde was rubbing an assortment of pool-cleaning gadgetry between her balloon-breasts and moaning. I sipped the vodka. From the corner of my eyes, I saw Mick and Pedro kissing, watching me, starting to peel off their clothes, making out now, watching me, naked and probably already hard. I didn’t care what they did, as long as they did it over there and to each other.

The onscreen blonde had climbed mostly out of the hot tub and progressed to using the pool attachments for purposes their manufacturers never intended, riding them in a way that made her breasts bounce in time with her moans. I hadn’t been with a woman in a long time. The blonde and my hand were doing their job. I lifted my hips and pushed my jeans and underwear down to my ankles. From the bed, someone gasped appreciatively. I’m six-four, Viking-blond, and I have a wide chest with a little hair across my pecs and a tight, well-muscled body thanks to the U.S. Army, but the crowning glory is the thick eight and three-quarters inches I pack between my legs, which was standing straight at attention and thwopped against my navel when it popped free of my pants. I settled back, started stroking it. It needed both hands. I used both hands.

After a couple of minutes, Mick climbed off the bed and knelt beside the couch. He was naked and hard too, but nowhere near my length or thickness. He reached for my cock. I nudged his hand away, still stroking with my other. He reached again, and I knocked his hand away again, this time with enough force to nearly topple him. He wised up and withdrew.

A few minutes later, Pedro took his shot. He crouched naked by the couch and bent his mouth toward my meat. I pushed him away. He tried again, and I pushed him away. “No,” I told him. He ignored me and tried a third time, then a fourth, and a fifth. Persistent bastard.

On maybe his tenth attempt, I figured I was drunk enough, and anyway maybe I owed him more than just a show. Maybe there was no harm in just a blowjob, if I ignored him and paid attention to the blonde on screen. This time, Pedro’s lips touched the head of my cock, and I let my hand slide away. His jaw practically unhinged, and he swallowed my thick rod like a snake. Definitely an experienced cocksucker. I’ve been blown by a lot of women, and there’s nothing better than a blowjob when they’re an experienced cocksucker. I moaned my appreciation.

Pedro tried to stick his finger up my ass, but no way was I ever going to be that drunk. I pushed his hand away and clamped my thighs tightly together so he couldn’t try that again. Pretty soon he was bobbing up and down on my lengthy rod, using his hand to supplement his mouth, as the blonde onscreen bobbed up and down on this pool wand thing she had stuffed up her cunt. Pedro did things to my dick with his tongue that I hadn’t felt in a long time, plus a few things I’d never felt before. I put my hands behind my head, displaying my body to Mick while Pedro serviced me.

“Gonna cum,” I hissed. I didn’t want to cum in his mouth, so I hauled his head off my cock at the last second and finished myself off by hand, spraying my cum on my chest, arm, and hand as a very nice orgasm tore through my body, making all my muscles twitch and jerk. Pedro discretely withdrew. Somebody handed me a towel. I cleaned up, pulled up my jeans, then sprawled out on the couch. The booze, a full stomach, the orgasm, and the soft cushions, so much more comfortable than sleeping on the beach, had me sleepy, and I closed my eyes while Mick and Pedro rutted at each other like bulls on the bed.