Johnny Pecs

by BRK   

Unexpectedly inheriting part of an island estate off the coast of Maine, Kent travels there to assess his options. On arriving in Glen Rush, he meets the young caretaker—a handsome stunner who’s acquired, with some justification, the nickname “Johnny Pecs”.

Suddenly inheriting your great-grandfather’s remote island mansion sounds like something that happens in the first chapter of a gothic novel—or maybe a steamy romance full of randy stable boys and snarky family retainers. Let me tell you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. For one thing, I didn’t know the first thing about this great-grandfather. Supposedly he was my mother’s father’s father, or at least that was what the probate lawyer said, but my shy, smiling mother had been so secretive about her past she might as well not have had one, and for all we knew she’d sprung from the ground fully formed like the Spartoi sewn from dragons’ teeth. When she married my dad there was no one from her past at all, and dad’s relatives ended up sitting on both sides of the church; and when she died, it was just our lot at the funeral. So it was creepy having a single distant figure emerge suddenly from that total darkness, pointing a gnarled, bony finger at me and hissing, “You, Kent Avery—you are the one.”

There were real-world headaches, too, and across multiple dimensions. The beneficiary of the inheritance was for some reason stated in the will as “my great-grandchild Kent Merrill Avery”, as if they were trying to reinforce the idea that Old Great-Grandad had been peering at us through a particularly cloudy crystal ball, or squinting down one of those rickety, cobbled-together twenty-foot telescopes you see in cartoons through a hole in the universe from some deep Galactic Oubliette. Since my middle name is and has always been Albert, and my good-for-nothing older brother’s first name really is Merrill (he goes by his middle name, Russ, as you might imagine), the probate lawyer had genially concluded that Old Great-Grandad had meant the inheritance for both of us, someone somewhere having forgotten to insert the word “and”. Russ, the lazy bastard, wanted nothing to do with it other than to receive big stacks of cash that would presumably be the result of the sale of the buildings and property. The upshot was that I had to go there alone and do all the work, and then he’d take half of the results.

The probate lawyer who’d tracked me down also casually muttered something about the possibility of unpaid property taxes, but I decided to pretend I hadn’t heard that one. I had a decent amount of money socked away—I’m an electrical engineer, and on top of my regular job I still got significant royalties from a series of college-level intro texts I’d co-written a few years back. But this was unknown territory. The tax bill might be like on an estate like this—not just a big house but a secluded compound on an otherwise sparsely inhabited island off the coast of Maine—I didn’t know, but it could be anything from chicken feed to, well, a giant, 20-foot-tall marauding chicken with a taste for human flesh. And then there were things like upkeep, repairs—I tried not to think about it just yet.

To keep my mind off all these things—the bony specter of Zachariah Copeland, my Old Great-Grandad, looming suddenly into my life from out of an inky black; my useless brother’s expectations of big piles of loot while I did the work; the unimaginable financial pitfalls that lay waiting for me—I tried to focus on guys. I enjoy people-watching, even in places like airports where a lot of the humanity streaming by you is stressed and unhappy—those are the kinds of places where unexpected islands of joy, like a happy dad kneeling down beside the stroller to play with his grumpy daughter until she laughs, really gladden your heart. And the best part of people-watching is guy-watching, because there are a lot of different ways a guy can be attractive, and cooling your heels in a waiting area gives you a chance to dream a languid interlude, dancing at a wedding reception with that uniformed Marine who looked like he was made of granite but moved like he was in complete control of every single part of his body. Or a quiet evening with that tired but contented-looking guy in the business suit with the glasses and floppy dark hair, curled up in his high-rise condo, making out to gentle mambo music playing on twelve-inch LPs from a stereo set older that I was. The whole flight from Champaign, Illinois to Bangor I had a great time imagining an afternoon biking and picnicking with the lanky blond a seat up from me and across the aisle—he seemed outdoorsy. Our relaxing pretend picnic was even catered by the friendly but unobtrusive flight attendant, Loren, who refilled our wine and kept us supplied with cheese and crackers and grapes and whatever else my bicycling companion decided to feed ourselves with.

The transfer flight to the single-runway airport outside the tiny coastal enclave of Glen Rush, Maine, was not so easy to distract myself from. I was the only passenger in a plane so tiny it seemed like it would be at the mercy of the slightest gust of wind. Inside I remembered movies where people talked about flying in planes or spacecraft that might as well have been tin cans, and once we were up in the air, the engines braying in my ears and the turbulence of a slow-building storm tossing us about like a dog shaking a rag doll in its teeth, I wondered if a tin can might be safer. The minuscule cabin had a view directly into the cockpit through the open cockpit door, and as there was nothing to see out the windows but white and gray I desperately tried focusing my powers of imagination on the strong-looking shoulders of the pilot as he manhandled the controls, fighting to keep us in the air, but the best I could do was to imagine myself up there kneading his shoulders, trying to channel the heavy vibration of the plane’s engines through my buzzing body and into his tight, twisting muscles.

Amazingly, this worked—I was so caught up in my mental game of trying to drive the bucking and buzzing of the twisting plane straight into this pilot’s shoulders that I didn’t notice we’d arrived at the Glen Rush airstrip until the loud, sudden bark of rubber hitting runway announced our touchdown. I stood up slowly once the plane had stilled and the pilot was shutting everything down, startled to realize my pretend encounter with the pilot’s shoulders had left me with a very real three-quarters hard-on. I tended to chub up in my little reveries with other guys, as in my fantasies we tended to be, well, enjoying each other’s physical presence; but it was pretty rare that I got anywhere near fully boned up. I had better control than that, or I thought I did, anyway.

Fortunately I was able to drape my jacket over my arm and hide the embarrassing lump in my slacks. The pilot—a bright-eyed, goateed Latino named Luis with a ready, white-toothed smile—handed me out my bag and satchel from the tiny cargo space and then shook hands with me on the tarmac. I smiled back at him, and kind of wished we had some time for that back-rub after all. It might have been my imagination, but when he shook me hand he gave me a little extra squeeze, and then, when he let go, I noticed him smile to himself as he rolled his shoulders minutely within his uniform blazer, as if he really were feeling the effects of a particularly intense shoulder massage. But then he turned and trotted back up into his plane to run through a post-flight checklist, and I headed off toward the main building, thinking no more about it.

In the building there was a young blonde woman, twenty-something with a girl-next-door air about her, standing behind a single counter. The sign hanging over her head promised ticketing, flight information, accommodations information, transportation rentals, and just about anything else, evidently. She looked up and smiled as I entered the building and approached, more like a local diner waitress than a ticketing agent, and I found myself half tempted to order pancakes, eggs, toast, and coffee just to see what would happen.

“What can I do for you, sir?” she asked. Her nametag said “Noreen,” which worked for me. She seemed like a Noreen.

“Hi, Noreen,” I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I felt like my status as an interloper entering unknown territory must be branded across my forehead. I decided to simplify the moment, so I set down my back and lay my jacket across it, leaving my satchel over my shoulders. “My name is Kent Avery?” I said, wondering if she’d had notice I was coming. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone to ferry me out to Glen Rush Island.”

To my surprise, Noreen’s reaction was to blush and duck her head slightly. I didn’t think she was reacting to me—I’m good-looking, sure, in a youngish-movie-star-without-the-make-up-and-hair-just-buying-a-Starbucks kind of way, and I was wearing the loose eggplant dress shirt I liked to wear when I traveled because someone told me once it told everyone I was warm and friendly. But she hadn’t blushed until after I’d mentioned who I was and why I was here. Maybe it was something about my name, like she found the name “Kent” intrinsically arousing. Or she had a thing for medieval English kingdoms.

When she didn’t say anything, I leaned forward encouragingly. “So, who do I need to see?” I asked.

If anything her cheeks reddened even further, but she managed an answer. “Johnny,” she said, face still tilted down, though I could just see the glint of her eyes though her lashes.

“Johnny?” I queried. I felt like I needed more information.

She nodded, still blushing furiously. Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, just for a second, then dropped down again. She managed to say the rest of his name—or what passed for it. “Johnny Pecs,” she said. Before I could react to this she started stacking and squaring the little stacks of paperwork she had on either side of her console. I could almost hear her heart beating, loud and fast.

“Johnny …Pecs,” I repeated slowly. Could that …possibly be someone’s name? One of my buddies at work, hearing I was about to head to the remote coasts of Maine for an extended absence, had gotten a strange look in his eyes and had cautioned me about how they do things “weird” out here. Did that include family names derived from body parts? Heck, for all I knew Noreen’s last name was Hamhock.

At my dubious response she looked up at me, square in the eyes, and stared wide at me, as if I’d expressed doubt in some cryptozoological legendary woodlands monster she’d not only encountered first hand but had gone to a Dave Matthews Band concert with. She nodded fiercely at me, cheeks still red, assuring me wordlessly I should not doubt the existence of Johnny Pecs. Then she seemed to see something over my right ear that made her eyes widen a shade further and her expression melt like butter on a hot day. Quickly I turned around to see what was making my new acquaintance Noreen swoon, and that’s when I saw him striding toward me: a tall, extraordinarily beautiful man with a dazzling smile who could only be Johnny Pecs.

The man walking toward me was an impressive specimen, though he was not, with one exception, unusually muscular. If anything he had the body of a runner, packed with tight, well-defined muscle, as if he were designed to be a machine capable of endless speed and endurance. Despite my perception of him as a runner he was wearing thick-soled boots and a pair of heavy blue carpenters’ work pants that were loose at the knees and ankles but just snug enough to hint at firm calves and strong, long-muscled thighs.

Above the waist he was, with the exception of a chocolate-brown braided leather choker around his neck, completely naked. Actually, he wasn’t, but he might as well have been. What he was wearing was a thin, clingy ribbed tank-top, coral red but faded from what might have been thousands of washings, and so much like a second skin it looked like the cotton fabric was in love with the idea of touching him and pressing every square centimeter of itself against the planes, curves, bulges and crevices of his godly torso. Time slowed, and my heart seemed to throb in my ears at long intervals as I stared, unable to look away.

His skin was light and golden like sweet caramel, contrasting pleasantly with the ruddy tank and the cascades of sun-streaked dark-brown hair that tickled and tossed about his shoulders. His abs were firm and hard, his shoulders bumpy, his arms lean and long. All of his muscles were intensely defined, not huge at all but tight and honed, as if their power had been concentrated—all except for his pecs. Oh, they were honed and concentrated too, but they were also swollen out of proportion to the rest of his physique, as if the fibers of his pectoral muscles responded to microtrauma with fivefold the increase in mass as any of the rest of the muscles on his body. Pert nipples poked tiny outdents in the tank-top, aimed somewhat downward owning to the ponderous size of his jutting chest. As he moved, still in a sort of perceived slow motion, his gait easy and assured, I could see the slightest reverberations of his booted footfalls rippling through the ample muscle, and just that simple, almost imperceptible rippling shivered through me, waking up my balls and pulling hard on my still half-awake cock. In the slowed-down world that consisted of him inching toward me, smiling wide, and me gaping at him, marveling at his very existence, with the percussion of my irregular heartbeats the only sound, I felt a reserve of moisture banking up under my tongue, and some part of me was aware I was in danger of finding myself drooling over this unexpected apparition.

Then he was before me, a foot away, hand extended, and the world started up again. Rain pattered on the windows, the storm I’d flown through finally catching up with me. My heart jack-hammered hard against my ribcage, and my knees seemed likely to give way at any moment. I remembered to swallow only just in time to keep all my spit inside me, though only by the sheerest fluke, or maybe through the last-minute tripping of the deepest of ROM-encoded emergency fail-safes. I’m not sure I staved off much embarrassment, though—his clear hazel eyes caught the movement of my throat and watched my Adam’s apple jump as I swallowed with some amusement before meeting my eyes again.

“I’m Johnny,” said the creature in a rich and welcoming tenor, the glint in his eyes matching the wide grin below. He had to be in his late twenties—he looked younger, but there were a few tiny lines near his eyes as he smiled, and a hint of having seen a few things in his gaze. “Johnny Musto. I’m the caretaker up at the island.”

I felt like I was emerging from suspended animation and was having to ramp back up to social competence in stages. With a concerted effort in the direction of normalcy I took his hand and tried to ignore the rush of warmth and arousal with which my body greeted simple contact with him. Weirdly, along with the sensations of pleasure tingling through me came a faint pang of fear that this man would disappear from before me, that it would turn out that I had imagined him and he would waft away into empty air like a forgotten memory.

I gripped his hand and shook it firmly. “K-kent Avery,” I managed. In that moment, I became aware of two facts: one, that I had somehow managed to get fully hard without really realizing it, and in as matter of seconds (though it had felt minutes, or like a moment outside of time); and two, that the jacket I wanted to use to hide said erection was presently draped across my suitcase on the floor beside me. I decided my only chance was strict eye contact. If I kept it up with him, maybe he’d keep it up with me. Fuck, I needed to rephrase that in my head.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Avery,” Johnny said amiably, shaking my hand.

“Kent, please,” I insisted.

His eyes were locked onto mine. “Kent,” he repeated, sounding pleased. “Call me Johnny.”

I didn’t dare speak his name, not yet. My conscious mind seemed ready to twist in ten ways at once. My heavy cock throbbed in my pants, angled along my hip, a source of heat radiating outward and so persistent it was like the pulses of warm arousal were practically visible in my peripheral vision. My heart knocked hard and relentless in my chest, and my blood rushed in my ears. My skin felt hot all over, and my hands itched roam the hard, hot man in front of me, as stimulated in their own way as my dick. Even my lips burned as I took in just how full and kissable his were, and my imagination, based on two seconds of acquaintance, was certain he’d be better at making out than any man I’d ever made a move on.

Fortunately Johnny seemed oblivious to all this—or, perhaps, he was merely circumspect. “Did Noreen get you all fixed up?” he asked, nodding at the desk behind me.

My brows tightened slightly, as I wasn’t sure about that—were there procedures or paperwork still? I glanced over my shoulder to check with Noreen, but she was gone. Whether she’d slipped through the shadowed entryway behind the counter and disappeared into the back area, or just ducked out of sight under the counter in utter chagrin, I had no idea. I turned sheepishly back to Johnny. “She just told me I had to talk to you,” I said. “You, ah, seem to have a fan.”

When his brows raised, seeking explanation, I let my eyes drop—just for a moment—to the thick expanse of his swollen, golden chest. His eyes followed mine down, and when we looked up again more or less at the same time, I saw his golden cheeks were burning. “Oh, right,” he said, as if the beauty of his arresting, extra-generous pecs was a thing he forgot about from time to time. He shrugged awkwardly, then, before I could stop him, he’d ducked around me and grabbed up my bag and jacket. “C’mon,” he said, already heading for the main glass doors, forcing me to unglue my feet from the floor and hurry after his bronze, undulating back and perfect round ass. “The Swallow’s outside.”

The “Swallow” turned out to be a light two-seater helicopter, so small that it seemed to be all glass-domed cockpit, with the gantry-like tail boom, thin rotor blades, and skids looking almost like they’d been added on as afterthought. Johnny strode confidently toward it, and as I caught up to him, my satchel with my computer and high-priority essentials bouncing against my hip I was about to ask if we should be flying a chopper in the rain—especially one as light as this. My quick glance up to check the gray sky must have clued him in. “Don’t worry about the storm,” he said, glancing up himself for a quick double-check of the overhead conditions. “It’s already done here. See?” Even as he said it, I noticed the rain had already let up substantially, and a bit of sun was peaking through the clouds near the western horizon.

We stowed my bags and boarded the helicopter. Johnny was clearly an expert with the thing. I remembered that light aircraft like this sometimes came in kits, and wondered if he’d built the Swallow himself, or helped someone else build it. We put on hour headsets and strapped in. “There’s a boat for larger cargo, or for when we can’t go up in the Swallow, of course,” Johnny explained over the mic as he went through his pre-flight. “I just thought you’d enjoy this,” he added, tossing me a totally shit-eating grin.

“Thanks,” I said distractedly, relieved he couldn’t feel the radiating pulse of my throbbing cock or the uptick in my pulse from that little throw-away grin. Then my eyes fell on his pecs and everything kind of stopped again. The main effect of walking through that shower to get to the Swallow was now right before me: that faded coral tank, which had already looked so snug and happy to cling to Johnny’s amazing body, was now …wet. It looked brick-red from the darkness of the water, and it seemed like it must have been painted on. I prized my eyes away from his chest, long enough to follow the curve of the thin hem as it wrapped around his lightly flaring lats, down from there along the curve of his narrow waist and hips, up the subtle ribbing as it dove and rode up and down the cut, hard muscles of his six-pack abdominals, until inevitably my gaze climbed up the sheer heights of the lower cliffs of his pecs, past the lone, cold spikes of nipples seemingly trying to push through the thin fabric, until my eyes finally rested where they wanted to belong, on the beautifully too-big pectorals that stood out from his chest from sternum to collarbone.

I realized I had been listening to nothing but my own breathing for a while, ignoring the loud clattering of the rotor and the roar of the wind, when Johnny’s voice quietly broke into my thoughts over my headset. “It’s okay if you like looking at them,” he said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

I realized I’d been staring, and despite his words I felt ashamed, so I looked up to meet his hazel eyes, glad we were now sitting and my raging erection was safely hidden under my forearm. The last part of what he’d said confused me, though. “What do you mean?”

He looked out over the water. The air was mostly clear now, though the light was fading. Up ahead a ways I thought I spotted two red specks of light on a larger dark blob, and figured that must be the island. “Just that lots of guys like looking at ‘em,” Johnny said casually. “Straight guys seem to like checking me out just as much as the gay guys.”

I mulled this perplexing statement over for a minute until it dawned on me that he was giving me an out, in case I was straight and was about to have a gay panic meltdown because I’d caught myself drooling over some guy’s chest. “I imagine us gay guys like it even more,” I said with a crooked grin.

Johnny grinned wide. “I reckon so,” he said. “Heck, some days I can’t even stop lookin’ at ‘em!”

I laughed. “I don’t blame you,” I said. “Seriously though, I’m sorry for staring. Maybe you do get it a lot, but it’s still rude, and I apologize.”

Johnny checked his instruments before holding my gaze a moment. “Kent, when someone comes along as hot as you are,” he said, “my rule is—Look all you want!” With that he took the helicopter into a fast, arching bank that put the looming mass of what had to be Glen Rush Island firmly before us. I could see the buildings of Old Great Grandad’s estate before me—it looked like fucking Hogwarts. I was having too much fun flying to think about the estate, anyway. Johnny was deliberately hot-dogging a little, just twisting enough this way and that to make it feel like the wind might catch this tiny aircraft and whip it away to some kind of North Atlantic Never-Never land. My stomach fell in that way that makes rollercoasters so much fun, and I felt a sudden desire to spend as much of the rest of my life as possible doing things with Johnny that made my blood rush.

“And how often is that?” I asked, raising my voice over the rushing wind and my own excitement.

He turned just long enough to smirk at me. “Once in a lifetime,” he said with a wink, before adjusting our flight a final time and touching down gently on the marked helipad atop the main compound building. It was such a corny line, but I was so giddy in that moment I was almost ready to believe him.

My plan, such as it was, had been to spend two weeks at the estate. Presumably I’d be evaluating the property and cataloging the contents as necessary (furnishings, art, and so on), possibly prefatory to a sale or escrow, but I’d deliberately left things open-ended because the probate lawyer, who was based in Bangor and had never so much as set foot on the island, had been practically useless when it came to figuring out what I’d be facing up here. He didn’t even have a rough square footage tally or a list of the buildings in the compound, and he even had someone named “Raoul” down as the caretaker, not Johnny.

“Raoul—that was my grandad,” Johnny explained as we trotted down rug-clad stone steps from the helipad where we’d landed in what felt like the Ivanhoe wing of the estate. “He and your great-grandad were pretty close. Actually, I’m pretty sure they were lovers, but they kept all that very much to themselves.”

Johnny turned us off the stairway into a wide, stone hall with ancient tapestries and modern lighting fixtures. I wondered what kind of money this place would make doing tours. Then I wondered what the fucking electric bill was, and when I would be stuck with it. I turned my brain forcibly back to what Johnny was talking about. “Wait—if my great grandad and your grandad were together, why didn’t you and your grandad inherit any of it?”

Johnny looked at me in surprise. “It has to be kept in the Copeland bloodline,” Johnny said, as if stating the obvious. “The estate won’t accept any other master.” He looked around and got his bearings—we’d arrived at a four-way meeting of broad, stone corridors. “This way,” he said, leading us off toward the left.

“But, I’m not a Copeland,” I objected, hurrying after him. “I’m an Avery.”

He looked at me sidelong. “You’re a Copeland,” he said confidently as we arrived at a pair of stately double doors. “You’re the Copeland, now. If you have Copeland blood, it drowns out everything else. This is the Yellow Room, by the way,” he added as he opened the doors and we steeped into a surprisingly open and pleasant looking suite, less the Castle Sturm-und-Drang I was expecting and more high-end European hotel. The color motif was a soft canary, with whites and a few lines of high-saturation blue brought out in contrast. Glass doors looked out onto a broad balcony and, beyond, deep blue-black skies and a mirroring ocean, each burnished red with the last embers of the day.

The bed looked big enough for four of me and was so inviting that I instantly felt exhausted after a day of traveling and transfers. I stumbled toward the thick, quilt-laden mattress like I’d walked here from Illinois, shedding my satchel and shirt onto the thick piled carpet almost without thought. I heard him saying something about his room, the Rose Room, being just down the hall, and the gymnasium wing where he’d built this body I so admired the level directly below, but I barely heard any of it.

From somewhere behind my I heard Johnny laugh as he opened and closed things. “The beds around here tend to do that to you,” he said lightheartedly. “You should be careful.”

I slumped face-first onto the bed, feet dangling off the edge, reveling in how comfortable it was. “That’s it,” I said into the bedspread, my voice muffled. It smelled very faintly of apricots, which I thought was nice. “I’m never leaving.”

Johnny snorted. He finished moving around—I discovered later he’d been putting my clothes and other items away in the various chests of drawers and wardrobes around the room—and a moment later I felt his hands on my feet as he started undoing my laces. “I’ll do it,” I mumbled muzzily into the duvet.

“Relax,” Johnny said. My shoes were already off and he was now pulling off my socks. “Roll over,” he said.

“Uh,” I said into the bed, “no thanks.” Even though I was now almost falling through this incredibly comfortable bed, my hard-on had somehow never abated. Indeed, now that Johnny’s hands had actually touched me it was pulsing stronger and harder than ever.

“C’mon, roll over,” Johnny said. He was prodding my hips, which, I have to say, was not helping. “I’ve seen ’em before, you know,” he said patiently. “Guys get hard around me all the time.”

“The voice of modesty,” I teased, not budging.

Then he straddled me and grabbed my hips on both sides, and I nearly fucking creamed right then and there. “It’s a fact of life,” he said rationally, rocking my hips a bit one way, then a bit the other way, trying to encourage me to roll over. “A guy sees me, he bones up. Straight, gay, doesn’t matter.”

“Not like this,” I protested. But I gave in and let him roll me over.

Johnny was above me, his long hair falling down around his face as he took in the unmistakable bulge in my pants. My cock was so hard it hurt, and it had reached its maximum size—longer than average by a damn site, but so thick and fat that it looked like I had a twenty-ounce soda bottle stuffed down my pants.

“Wow,” Johnny said, reverently. He licked his lips, and I felt a rush of something like gratitude that I had given to Johnny the gift of overpowering, almost goofy awe that he had sparked in me. He was forward, straddling my legs as he admired my shivering, hot tool, and I caught the edge of his scent. It was earthy, like peat and trees, and maybe a bit of stone, like he’d gathered up the aura of this old monstrosity of an estate. I drew in a deep breath of his heady aroma and took the opportunity to indulge in the prospect of man-cleavage as his thick upper pecs pressed together under the still slightly damp tank top.

“You …like?” I said after a long, quiet moment of mutual appreciation.

Johnny lifted his head and met my gaze. His eyes were full of dark fire. “Let me help you off with these jeans,” he said in a husky voice.

I woke from my nap with the room dark but for the buttery-warm light of a single lamp by the enormous bed, the black sky beyond my balcony long since having broken out into uncounted stars. I was alone, and yet I knew that wasn’t quite true—Johnny was around, somewhere, puttering about in some large, open space a few levels below me. The kitchens, maybe. I didn’t ask myself how I knew that, not yet. I kind of felt like I knew, and didn’t want to know. I had a sinking feeling that if I asked Johnny about things like that, the answer would be some variation on, “You’re a Copeland. You’re the Copeland.”

What I was ready to ask myself was whether my prodigious cock was going to be ready to go down anytime soon. I’d fallen asleep boned, blissed out of my mind, and I’d woken up just as rock-hard as a newly minted fifteen-year-old. Crossly, I sat up in bed, leaning against the pillows and cushioned backboard, and stared firmly down at the recalcitrant organ, but it just glared defiantly up at me with its one leaky eye. I tried reminding the thing that it had had a perfectly good release, and by perfectly good I meant “monumentally epic”, not two hours before; but the memory of Johnny’s mouth and lips on my tremendous cock only spurred the organ to greater firmness and need. Precum spat from my slit like a bubbling hot spring. I thought about Johnny’s brief kiss, the last thing I’d experienced before I’d passed out. As I’d closed my eyes, I’d been looking at Johnny’s pecs, of course, and I’d noticed a strange thing. There’s been a damp spot in Johnny’s pants where he’d almost cum himself while he was getting me off. But I’d noticed something that gave me a final surge of arousal before everything went back—the same kind of dark, wet spot right round Johnny’s thick, pokey nipples.

My cock surged hard, almost defiantly. I shook my head, looking around at my surroundings as if there might be something lying near at hand to train a cock to behave. The room looked quite pleasant in the low light from the bedside lamp. It was more livable than over-elegant, thank god—no spindly chairs or useless objets-d’art depicting crazed satyrs or Roman godlings, just sturdy, well-made furniture and subdued, well-appointed décor. Directly opposite me was a large, dark fireplace, currently unlit, and above the mantel was a large abstract painting, though as I looked at it I found I wasn’t quite sure whether it was a painting, or something else. It depicted an array of a dozen pale white discs, each with a beveled circle carved a quarter of the way in from the edge, all scattered across the surface of the painting and presenting at different angles, so that some showed the full face of the disc’s circle while some were almost edge-on. The strangest thing was that I almost felt like they were moving, but minutely slowly—revolving on their axes and shifting through space as well, and perhaps the whole assembly was revolving and shifting too, with respect to whatever space it occupied.

I smiled at the thing, because I knew this was my powerful imagination playing tricks on me. But I could feel something the painting, only it was the same feeling I got from the house. And that feeling was…I wasn’t sure. Readiness. It felt like readiness.

My stiff, towering cock was radiating heat in the pleasantly cool room. I let my thoughts drift back to what Johnny had given me as I licked my own lips, staring down at my tool. The truth was that the touch of Johnny’s mouth had been almost revelatory, like I’d not only never had a blowjob before, I’d never even imagined the possibility. I remembered his hot, moist breath as he bent over my cock, just huffing warm breath across the shaft, and I found myself doing the same, bending forward and letting my hot, ragged breaths huff across my rigid, superfat tool, shuddering as I felt the pleasure of my own breaths across sensitive, eager, pre-slick skin.

Sweat pricked in the middle of my back as I sank deeper into the memory. Johnny had lowered his mouth so that it was not quite making contact with the stubby head of my too-thick cock, then, slowly, he’d let his tongue loll around the edge. This much, I could do as well, and I was so enthralled by the memory of that simple moment, that brief, exhilarating gift of fellatio between two horny, appreciative strangers-turned-something else, that I wanted to recapture it, to share it again with myself. I lowered my mouth until it was encircling my head without touching, then slowly extended my tongue and shuddered violently as I felt tongue and heated cock make contact, the musky pre skittering over my tastebuds as I deliberately moved my tongue in a lethargic circle around the head, teasing myself just as Johnny had done.

This was as far as I’d ever been able to take care of myself; my cock was big and always more than ready to be taken care of, but I was only so flexible, though I’d seriously considered looking into what kinds of yoga might help me accomplish more on those occasions when I sought to worship my own cock. But now, tonight, it was not enough. I was drowning deep in the memory of Johnny’s ministrations, and nothing less would do. I felt everything he’d done to me as if it were happening again, as if I were truly repeating the moment. The way he slipped from teasing licks and breaths into passionate lathing every surface of my dick, the monster grasped firmly at the hilt as he finally took the whole head into his hot mouth and sucked, drawing my fat cock deeper and deeper into his mouth, as his tongue and lips worked against the shaft to squeeze every iota of pleasure out of me, until finally he reached where his hand was gripping the base of my cock. It was the most basic part of a fellatio, and yet I was so thick, so big around, that no one had ever been able to do this beautiful, brain-meltingly euphoric thing before. And then, even as I teetered already on the cliff’s edge, ready to orgasm even from such a simple act as this, Johnny had suddenly pulled away his hand and impaled himself on my enormous cock all the way to the root.

The world seemed to shift, wrenching minutely around an invisible axis.

And as I experienced again the explosive rush of that sudden wonderful shock, I felt it again. I felt my cock pushing straight into a throat like it belonged there, sheathing itself, and it was so perfect that I exploded in an orgasm even more massive and earth-shattering that the one I’d had before—perhaps because it was my throat this time. I’d wanted to share that moment again with myself, and I had, and I started cumming hard—so hard I had to pull off my cock and let jet after jet of cum splash across my face.

I laughed, feeling weirdly liberated. I’d never cum like this, not ever. I’d never had a really good blow job, not until Johnny had given me that gift, and then I’d let my imagination share it with myself again.

Only—it wasn’t only imagination, was it. Because… when I slid down and collapsed on my back in the bed, my cock, which normally plopped right across my lower abs when it was still hard and recovering from an orgasm, now slapped heavy and wet across half my torso, the head smearing hot cum over the sensitive skin just below my pecs. In fact my slit was at this moment a centimeter away from my left nipple, and was threatening to douse same in leftover cum from my big, still-spasming balls.

I gaped at my schlong for a long, moment, then dropped my head back onto the soft pillows of my new bed in what already felt like my new home, no matter that I’d come here firmly intending to stay two weeks at most.

Something was fucking with my head.

Or, my intuition suddenly objected, maybe my head was fucking with something.

Possibly both.

I’d wanted something, something that involved a memory I wanted to have again. And somehow… somehow… my cock had made it happen. My cock had given me that memory, by shoving itself into my mouth beyond the inch I could reach… bursting upward into my mouth, into my throat, exploding in side until I could have that same feeling, of filling a mouth, of being swallowed, of cumming violently down the same throat that was constructing it.

As I lay there, my eyes flicked up to the painting of the plates. They were definitely moving, even it if it was at a speed I knew I could not actually see. Was it doing something? Was I? I stared at it, demanding answers; but the painting remained silent, not responding in any perceptible way.

I fell to pondering recent events.

I had used my imagination to make a memory happen again, only… something had happened and my imagination—always vivid and powerful, my whole life—had somehow been augmented by an extra kick of reality.

But then something else occurred to me.

In that first moment, when Johnny had wrapped his mouth around my head without touch, I had imagined. I had lain there and imagined him taking my too-massive cock, further and further into his mouth, until he’d reached the hand he had wrapped around the base. And then, I’d imagined more, greedy bastard that I was. I imagined him deep-throating me like no one should ever have been able to do. The world had wrenched then, too. And my vivid, sex-drench fantasy had been …somehow …augmented with that extra kick of reality.

I watched the plates almost not turning in the painting, cocking my head at it. “Are you helping me?” I asked, still in that low, quiet voice. I felt dizzy, confused. “Or, am I helping you? What do you get out of all this?” I wasn’t even sure what I was saying. There was something… a something?… but——

I shook my head. I only knew one person on Earth who even stood a chance of helping me answer questions like that, and he was currently three levels below me and a hundred meters east in the south wing, making us lasagna and corn bread for a late dinner. My stomach growled loudly at the thought and I laughed, bounding up out of bed, my finally flaccid but still huge cock flapping against my pale, firm thighs as I found a pair of beat-up jeans and went in search of the man with the mesmerizing pecs.

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