The Usual Fantasy

By Natty Soltesz

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 college 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.