Bedmate

Ardo woke all at once from a long train of strange dreams as if he’d been hurled out of them into sudden consciousness. His eyes jumped open, and he lay in the bed alert and on edge, heart pounding in his chest. Something was wrong. The ambient sound around him was all wrong. It was too soft and muted for a hospital room, or even for a city. What little he could see in the way of shapes and light without his glasses—well, that was wrong too. He’d drifted into sleep with harsh fluorescents beating down on him and the blurred, indistinct forms of people shifting meaninglessly around him like drones in a hive, but here the lighting was as soft and muted as the soundtrack, full of buttery whites set off by heather greens and cozy russets, and there were no doctors, no nurses or technicians, no buddies … no one at all in this large, empty room, and, from the sound of things, possibly for miles and miles around.

Ardo frowned to himself. Where in the holy hell was he? Was he kidnapped? Waking from a six-year coma? Was he dead, and heaven was a place with bright sunlight and yellow walls?

Fuck.

He was in a bed—a nice and comfortable one, if his ass and back were to be believed. He spread his hands flat on the sheets, letting them shift a little away from him as he took in the rich, expensive-feeling bed-linens on the broad bed he found himself in. He stretched his hands out further, but he didn’t find the edge on either side—it had to be a king at least, and he was ensconced right in the middle of it as if he were the master of this unknown domain. A waft of pleasantly cool, fresh-scented air made him aware both that there was no top sheet over him, and that he was naked as a jay-bird. Without conscious thought or direction his hands moved back toward himself, sliding up onto his smooth torso, and again without instruction they parted in opposite directions, his right hand sliding up his smooth, stone-carved abs toward his firm, defined pecs, the other snaking downward to wrap around what he was already acutely aware was a rigid, throbbing, intensely sensitive cock.

His heartbeat sped as his fingers closed around his stiff, impressively fat, uncut shaft, sending a thrill of thin euphoria through his long, limber body at the basic, erotic contact. His other hand’s stroking of his own chest stirred almost as much pleasure in him, as if he had spent weeks starving for simple stimulation.

His mind flicked to the last time he’d felt another hand around his aching cock. It had been a while, though not for want of candidates, or even interested parties. Waiting tables at Araya’s Chilean on Ninth street might be a dead-end job, since only family could be management there, but he loved it more than any job he’d ever had, the tips were good to amazing, and, in his tight black pants and the red fitted shirt that showed off his broad shoulders and lithe physique, he caught the eyes of many a good-looking patron, from grinning, all-knowing regulars to curious, bright-eyed visitors from the banker and hipster worlds in either direction. But his last love, Sebastian, had soured him on love and sex, possibly for good. Four years had gone by since they’d ended things, but Seb’s unflagging insistence that he change himself for him, that he become Seb’s version of what an ideal boyfriend should be, still rankled in him. It had gradually become intolerable, especially since it seemed to largely involve dispensing with everything Ardo loved. He shouldn’t wait tables, because that wasn’t a real job. He shouldn’t listen to shitty music, he shouldn’t eat meat, he shouldn’t jack off when Seb was off on business trips, yadda yadda yadda. It had stayed with him like a bad smell, and Ardo found he was still resentful, all these years later.

The sex was great, sure. Seb was hot as fuck, built like a hard and honed college wrestler, and he gave head on Ardo’s long, fat cock like he was born to it. But it wasn’t enough. In the end, he got rid of the thing he didn’t love, which turned out to be his boyfriend. Except he seemed to have chucked having a boyfriend out the door with Seb, and maybe even letting anyone close enough to tell him who he was or what he should be. No one could do that, and no one would, Ardo swore to himself.

He was used to his hand wrapped around his cock, then, but there was something about this morning, something in the cool fresh air or the dappled sunlight maybe. He felt harder than ever—rigid, unyielding, his cock an ancient, unfailing monument crafted from the hard bones of the very earth. And at the same time, he was more sensitive, his turgid cock awaiting a single caress to sing through him with intense pleasure. His hand, too felt strong, as if his grip had been shaped for this purpose, for the stroking of this very tool.

He let his head loll to his left as the sensations flooded him. He felt as though nothing more than a few short strokes of his cock, maybe a brush or two of his nimble fingers across his acutely responsive nips, would be all that was necessary to put him over the edge—

Then he stopped, frozen, eyes wide, his pounding heart and the drifting breeze suddenly the only things moving in the strange room.

He was not alone.

As far as he could tell with his blurry vision the wide, sunlight-yellow wall that rose up before him several feet beyond the foot of the bed had been apparently empty and innocent of any decoration or opening or any relief but faint shadows cast by the frames of the window-casing behind him. But the otherwise similarly empty wall on the left side of the room, maybe fifteen feet from the bed in which he had found himself, sported a doorway. The opening was so broad as to be nearly square, with, apparently, no actual door, as if the room were to be permanently accessible from whatever space lay beyond. And in that doorway, backlit by the same warm afternoon sunlight that filled the room he was in, loomed a blurry, indistinct human shape.

It was broad at the shoulders, not massive but visibly possessed of strength and power even shadowed and blurred to featurelessness by Ardo’s defective eyes. The figure was narrow at the waist, rangy like a man built to the ideal specification of the ultimate male form, and tall enough that it would have only just cleared the lintel were to proceed into the room he was in. But it did not enter. The formidable, vague form just stood there in the entranceway, static and unmoving. Ardo had the unnerving impression, as if by a sixth sense, that he was being stared at, and the awareness sent a chill up his spine.

Abruptly self-conscious, Ardo remembered, to his deep chagrin, that he was both naked and fully erect. Heat flooded his cheeks and he let his hand fall away from his cock, though the action seemed pathetic and pointless to him. Slowly, he rose to sit up in the bed, drawing both hands behind him to support his weight, not taking his eyes off the figure in the doorway. He stared back hard at the immotile form, squinting to try to produce any kind of detail as he cursed his lifelong shitty vision for the thousandth time. There was something … odd about that silhouette, but Ardo could quite figure out what it was. The more he gazed at it, even without being able to see it, the more he felt a visceral reaction, as if all the cells of his body, every mitochondrion, every writhing micron of DNA in him were aroused and heated by want for him. His dick seemed to strain for him, quivering from rabid want without knowing, responding on a primal, animal level to the gravitational allure of that powerful, masculine form, a need as inflexible as his cock itself.

Ardo’s mind wanted to rebel against the growling of his id. He felt an intense impulse to loose a barrage of questions at the stranger, about who he was; where they were; why he’d fallen asleep in a busy inner-city hospital and woken up here in this bucolic neverland; why (it belatedly occurred to him) the ankle he’d twisted, in an overenthusiastic attempt at a lay-up during a pick-up game with some of the other waiters at the restaurant, suddenly felt good as new; just, generally, an all-encompassing “what the fuck” kind of thing.

But he was too nervous. He couldn’t break the silence, and then the figure turned and moved silently out of view, leaving only an indistinct sense of a large and empty sunlit room like his own beyond the empty doorframe, and he’d missed his chance.

Unaccountably alarmed by the figure’s disappearance, Ardo felt himself sit up the rest of the way, sliding his bare feet onto the cool, well-polished hardwood floors. He was still hard and aroused—his dick felt like he could pound holes in theses lovely, buttery walls. Even his nipples were hard and aching. He turned his head to look around the room, but empty space offered him no obvious means of preserving his dignity. There was no wardrobe or dresser, no closet door, nothing at all but the bed. He glanced down at it and frowned. Not only had there not been a top sheet draped across him when he’d woken, it looked very much like there was no top sheet at all for him to cover himself up with. Briefly, he contemplated pulling off the clean white, super-high-thread-count fitted sheet he’d been laying on and making use of that. But the image of himself wrapped up in a fitted sheet was somehow too silly to even seriously consider, and he discarded the idea dejectedly.

He abruptly remembered a snatch of one of the strange, overlapping dreams he’d not long since woken up from. He was in a busy airport. People were bustling around him or were sitting, parked and placid, in the rows of seats you find next to the boarding gate. It didn’t seem to matter to anyone that he was, like now, both completely naked and impressively erect. The harried travelers and jaded staff were too wrapped up in their own affairs to notice him, and even the people that were seated and passive in the waiting area, those that weren’t distracted by their phones and tablets, were watching him with only most idle interest possible, as if they were taking notice of his nudity and arousal only because they were colossally bored. Then, in the dream, the waiting area became a theater audience, and he was standing there glowering down at them from the stage, still naked and boned, arms crossed over his hairy chest, increasingly miffed by the fact that most of them were still obsessing over their stupid devices. “Fuck you,” he groused at all of them, and suddenly the front row was a stereotypical old-fashioned panel of skating judges holding up big cards with numbers on them. He read them out to himself. “Five point nine … five point nine … six point oh, thanks a lot, dude … what? five point oh?” He found he was burning holes in the fourth judge, who, of course, was a grumpy, embittered Seb. “FUCK YOU!” Ardo shouted at him, managing in his dream more conviction and self-assertion with him than he’d ever done in real life. At that outburst, the numbers had gone down and come back up again, and not only had the five point nines become sixes, but Seb was now grudgingly giving him a revised five point four. Ardo tossed his arms up, and then his arms had become wings and he’d flown away, entering a new and more peculiar part of the dream that he didn’t quite remember other than that it was pretty damn fucked up.

Ardo shook his head slightly, returning his thoughts to the present. He was not quite sure he was comforted by the vision, though at least the naked-in-an-airport part had prepared him, a bit, for his current predicament, especially since there was rather less than a crowd of onlookers at the moment. He tried to get a better handle on his surroundings. He turned his head to the left, where there was indeed, as he had suspected from the shadows cast on the opposite wall, a large, many-paned window directly behind the bed. The vista it looked out onto was at the moment nothing but a haze of greens and golds, but then suddenly his eyes fell on something that made his heart leap. The window had a very deep sill—deep enough that it looked bereft without cushions and a little pile of books, like the bay windows in his gran’s house in clifftop house in Chile—and though the polished Maplewood was mostly bare there was an object resting to one side of the sill, an object whose shape he recognized.

Ardo reached out and, with a rush of relief, picked up a pair of black-framed glasses. He handled them for a moment, gazing down at them long enough to know that they were not his own glasses, or, at least, he did not recognize the frames; but he put them on anyway, guessing—correctly, as it turned out—that they would be exactly the correct prescription. Sure enough, the moment he had them on, the room leapt into perfect clarity.

It was just as he had sensed: clean, bright, open, high-ceilinged, and completely vacant except for the very nice bed, complete with cherry frame and a demure headboard rising just shy of the sill to the wide, multipaned window in three sections looking out onto what looked like a sunny, tree-lined garden. He saw now that the middle section of the window was up a foot or so, allowing warm, sweet air to sift in from outside. The soft-yellow walls turned out to be wallpaper with a subtle but dense design of thousands of tiny thick equilateral crosses or plus signs, like the first-aid cross or the Swiss flag, in faint amber on a warm white-daffodil field. He liked the overall feel of the place, he decided, though to say it was underfurnished was putting it mildly. The only egress was the wide doorless entryway at the far end of the room, where that tall, unknown masculine figure had stood unmoving, watching him, before withdrawing to places unknown.

Ardo knew what he had to do next. The man was still out there, and Ardo had to confront him if he was to gain any kind of purchase on his new situation. He wrenched his eyes from the vacant doorway and glared down at his fat, hard, immutable cock. It had not gone down in the slighted, and it now stared insolently back up at him, as if determined to stay hard indefinitely. It had gotten him into plenty of trouble in the past, Ardo mused sullenly, and clearly the beast had no intention to reform.

Ardo guessed it was no accident that he’d been placed in a room without a stitch of clothing to preserve his modesty. It might not even be an accident he was as hard as fuck—hard enough that the idea of not being hard seemed as impossible as licking his elbow, or uncracking an egg—and as horny as an entire locker room of boiling-hormone teenage jocks. Who knows what they dosed him with at that hospital while they were siphoning their gallons of blood out of him, or what had happened to him since? He could be pumped so full of Viagra that four hours would look like a thirty-second quickie, or who knows what. He glanced down quickly to check his arm, wrist, and hand, but there was no sign of the IVs or blood-draw shunts they’d kitted him up with at the hospital. And why had they needed so much blood when he’d come in with a (now healed) busted ankle, anyways?

He ran a hand through his shoulder-length, jet-black hair and tried to pull himself together—to get a grip, at least metaphorically. He was hard, that was all there was to it. Rampant and buck-naked. Well, fuck them. Whoever was here, whoever that figure was and anyone else that might be watching him—they’d already seen his hard, stiff prick, and probably his naked ass too. Fuck them.

He stood with as much resoluteness as he could manage and, after testing his ankle and confirming it was no longer busted and appeared to be as good as new, he padded to the entranceway.

The next room was not, as it had seemed at first, the same as the one he’d woken up in: at least, it was not a bedroom, though it was similarly sized and appointed with the same floors and wallpaper and the same triple window on the left-hand wall, middle section again open partway to let in the gentle breeze. This second room was also just as underfurnished as the first, sporting only a deep, cozy, extra-long brown leather couch flush against the wall nearest him, just to the left of the entryway he was standing in, and, smack in the center of the far wall, the largest flat-screen he’d ever seen. He was, oddly enough, slightly unsettled by this: comfortable surroundings and cool amenities communicated to him an invitation to make himself comfortable, and Ardo didn’t like being told to just accept things he didn’t understand. He’d struggled out of too many bad situations to let himself be bamboozled for long.

There was no sign here of the person who’d been watching him from the doorway. There was, however, another wide entryway on the far wall, to the left of the flat-screen in counterbalanced position to the one he stood in, and from it there seemed to be coming sounds of metal clanking interspersed with just-audible huffs and grunts. He recognized the sounds immediately. The third room, he surmised, was set up with weights and gym equipment, and someone was making use of them and giving himself a good workout.

Ignoring the flutter in his guts, and the sense of acute self-consciousness buzzing through him, Ardo crossed the room, head held high and cock so rigid it didn’t even bounce as he walked (it, too, had its head held high, Ardo thought wryly). He reached the third room and stopped, drawing in an involuntary gasp.