Date: Tue, 15 Aug 2006 19:10:47 -0700 (PDT)
From: Arnold Layne <arnoldlayne69@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Usual Fantasy

The Usual Fantasy
by Bacteriaburger

	The minute he steps onto the scene my mind scrambles, my tongue
goes *lagalagalag* like something out of a cartoon.
	He's half-naked, his impossibly flawless and muscled torso swaying
as he walks past me.  He wears a pair of black nylon shorts, the mounds of
his plump butt practically bouncing as he walks.  He must have just
finished running.
	I'm not thinking anymore, I slam shut my book, stand up and begin
to follow him.  He heads toward the rows of student apartments and I
follow.  My body follows my mind, or maybe it's the other way around.  I
tell myself it's criminal that young guys should be allowed to walk around
like this, that he shouldn't have the right to do what he's doing to me.
	He walks steadily, looking back and forth.  And then he catches my
vibe and glances back at me.  Christ he's handsome, short black hair,
beautiful face, totally masculine.  I stare back stupidly, unable to look
disinterested, and his face registers something -- does he sneer just
slightly? -- before turning back around.
	I'm on a road to frustration and I can't put on the brakes.
	I follow him across the road, to a shady, tree-lined block.  There
is nobody around but me and him.  He turns and heads up to his porch, his
smooth legs flexing with each step.
	So this is it, I figure; game over.  But he glances back at me
again as he opens the door, just the slightest acknowledgement.  Then he is
inside.  But he doesn't shut the door behind him.
	I stop in my tracks, staring up at his house.  My stomach wells up
with fear and anxiety, and I start. up. his. steps.
	My feet make the worst hollow wooden sounds on his porch.  Any
minute now he'll look out and say "What the fuck do you think you're
doing?"
	But it doesn't happen.
	I look through his screen door.  It's dark in there, but I can make
out a hallway, a kitchen at the end of it.
	Suddenly, a sound from a room on the right.  A little grunt, maybe
a muffled moan.  I put my hand on the door handle, press the rusty button
with my thumb.  It unlatches.  I pause...another grunt, this one more
pronounced, breathier.
	Sloooowwwly I push open the door, it creaks and squeaks.  If he's
going to catch me, it's going to be now.
	But still, nothing.
	I step inside.  A weird vertigo overtakes me.  I can hear my heart,
feel the pulse in my ears.  I let the door shut behind me and step toward
the archway, where the sounds are coming from.  There's a television -- it
must be the living room.  More sounds -- rustling (nylon shorts), movement.
	I step into the room.
	He's there.  Lying back on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes.
His other hand is in his shorts, working his dick.  Light from the window
illuminates a sheen of sweat on his gorgeous body, the smooth muscles of
his chest heaving, him laid out for me like a buffet on an old leather
sofa.
	I kneel down before him, running my hands up his warm legs.  He
takes his hand out of his shorts, and drapes one arm over the other,
shutting out the real world in favor of the fantasy.
	I take his waistband and slide down his shorts.  This guy -- this
man -- takes obvious pride in his body.  His stomach is golden brown,
hairless, stretched taut between the bones of his pelvis.  His thatch of
brown curlies are trimmed clean -- but not too trimmed -- his balls smooth
as white chocolate, rolling against his thigh as I lift his legs, throwing
his shorts to the side.
	His cock -- cut, but not scarred, and hard as a railroad spike --
is fleshy, smooth, a throbbing lollipop.  It seeps against his stomach.
	I lower my mouth and suck in each of his balls.  The taste is clean
but sweaty, with just the slightest hint of cologne.  Jock frat boy
college-age nuts.
	The guy -- in my mind, I name him Chris -- breathes again, but
never looks.  Slowly, I run my tongue up the salty succulence of his prick.
Everything reacts perfectly -- his cock juts up right in time for my lips
to catch it, and I wrap them around the slippy, musky-tasting head,
swirling my tongue around to savor the taste.
	Another groan, and I realize this isn't going to last long, because
it's not about his pleasure.  It's about getting off and getting away.
It's about him putting his load, his desire, into me, so I can keep it like
a secret.
	I chug his cock in between my lips, taking it easily into my
throat, sucking hard and soft and deep.  His cock is incredibly sensitive,
all senses ablaze and aware like the electric flesh of a newborn baby,
reacting to every motion of my lips, every slurp of my tongue.
	I run my hands up his stomach, up his chest, and his body melts
under my hands.  My head keep bobbing as I pinch his tiny tan nipples,
making them harden into littler nubs, then running my hands back down,
giving him a chill as I scrape my fingers down his sides, tickling his
pelvis.
	I flip him over onto his stomach, my hands turning him like a piece
of wet clay on a pottery wheel.  His ass perts right there before me,
smooth and cream-colored, just waiting to be charted, parted.  I spread
open his cheeks, and bury my face inside.  My tongue goes right for his
hole -- and of course it is clean, but with a certain tang, sweaty and
deep.
      Chris gasps, takes in a sharp breath.  His ass is shaved completely
smooth, and my mouth and tongue slide all over his derriere effortlessly.
Fucking gorgeous ass.  His knothole is relaxed, accommodating, and I shove
my tongue inside as far as it can go.  Chris bucks back to meet it.
      I prop him up on his knees and he spreads his ass for me.  The pose
is unmatched -- his head down, his broad back narrowing to a tight waist,
flaying out again to his muscled buttcheeks, a deep depression going down
the middle with a pink, pulsing hole in the center of that.  I bury my
tongue back inside, working it strong, mashing, piercing through.
      I reach below him and feel that he's still rock hard.  I start
jerking him off in earnest, and now his whole body gets into it, his hips
bucking in rhythm, working his cock into my hand, then bouncing his asshole
back against my tongue.
      I get my index finger nice and slippy, then run it down his smooth,
wet crack, pausing at the entrance to his hole.  Chris bucks back, and my
finger goes inside him to the first knuckle.
      This time, a whimper.
      I slide more and more of my finger into that hot, sucking ass, and
then it's in to the last knuckle, squeezed inside him like a vice.  I have
a feeling not much has been up that ass before.  Maybe his own finger when
he was alone and particularly horny.  Maybe, but that's it.
      I keep jacking him, and now I'm like a Jack-U-Off machine, both of my
hands working him over, finger fucking him and beating him off at the same
time.  I start to put in another finger when I realize he's about to lose
it.  Quickly I move his leg and duck underneath his body.  My finger still
plunging his asshole, I wrap my lips around the head of his cock and suck
it in.
      "Uh, uh, UH!" he groans with each jab of my finger, and like a faucet
has been turned on he unloads right into my mouth.  Spurts of hot jock
cream coat my tongue as I eagerly eat it down.  This is it, the only part
of him I can really ingest, possess, and I drink down each spurt like a
starving man.
      When he's done I stand up.  Chris -- or whatever he's called -- keeps
his head down in the couch cushions.  His body still heaves and I know it's
time to leave.  My purpose has been served.
      I'm just an actor in this sick, stupendous world, and I have played
my part.

      The end.