Thanks for checking this story out. I'm not finished with this series yet (six chapters deep right now), but i anticipate it will be between 8-10 chapters long. I hope you stick around to the finish, so to speak... ;)
-PDreadful
*****
Ben DeLuca was dreaming. Candice from HR was blowing him, her lips candy apple red as she sucked his dick in until it hit the back of her throat. He moaned when she bit down just a tiny bit, a twinkle of playfulness in her eye. She slid back down his manhood until it popped out of her mouth. His cock bobbed as she licked her lips, torturing him with anticipation.
Her fingers traced the line between his nuts, tickling the sensitive hairs there, and then she was on his cock again, her mouth warm and tight. Candice's tits were hanging just below him, perky and large. Real Candice was kinda fat and a big fucking bitch, and he was sure her tits were nowhere near as nice as these. He tried to reach down but dream Candice batted his hands away, speeding up on his cock.
Just before he was ready to blow she pulled off him. His hips shifted in frustration, he was so close. He grabbed her head and forced himself into her mouth, trying to ride her face until he came. The dream shifted, and now his sister Molly's best friend from high school Elizabeth was riding his cock, thrashing above him in pleasure.
Though he hadn't fantasized about Elizabeth in years, he still felt the stab of awkwardness that he got when he jerked it to his younger sister's friends. She was really riding him, her hips moving fast and hard. She suddenly stopped, looking down at him, but it wasn't Elizabeth's face. Laura put her finger to her lips and sucked it suggestively. His dick pulsed, and then he was thrusting into her until he came.
He woke up later, feeling like grade-A shit, his dream having him pining for Laura. The rest of it, the pain in his head and a bubbly stomach, those he contributed to last night. Instead of opening his eyes, he opted to lay there for another however long it took for his head to stop hurting.
Something felt off, but he wasn't sure what. He rolled over, too hung over to care, pulling the sheet up over his head to block out the asshole sunshine that was turning the inside of his eyelids red. He curled up into a tight protective ball safe inside a fortress of Egyptian cotton.
His lower belly itched. Dried residue flaked off when he scratched at it, sticking under his fingernails. Shit, he hadn't had a wet dream since high school. It was time to get a girlfriend, he needed to get laid. He needed to get over Laura.
It smelled wrong here, he realized with a start. It wasn't bad, actually it smelled really nice, but that was what was making him feel like something was off. His bed didn't smell clean like this. Had he actually hooked up with someone last night?
There was too much sunshine for him to be home, too. His bedroom windows were armed with solar blocking curtains, mostly because of the stupid floodlights on his neighbor's garage that never turned off.
He peeked out, then curled back into his ball, pulling the sheet over his head again. This wasn't his bedroom. This wasn't his apartment. It wasn't even a hotel. He was in someone else's bed. Who? He strained to remember, but drew a blank. He remembered going out to Sanjay's going away party. They'd started at a restaurant, then moved to a bar. Drinks and karaoke. Then, nothing.
Okay, who'd been there? At the karaoke bar? He struggled to make his aching head focus, but it kept trying to reboot to avoid the pain. He had to piss, now, too, the urge coming out of nowhere. He didn't just have to piss, he urgently had to piss. Like, had to piss so bad he couldn't hide in the bed anymore had to piss.
Squeezing the muscles in his belly, he rolled out of bed, spotting a door that looked promising. He ran in, sighing in relief as he barely made it into the toilet. It felt like he peed forever, it just kept coming, and coming. How much fluid could a bladder hold? He tried to remember, it was a random fact he knew once. Two cups? It had to be more than that. He was still peeing.
He heard movement behind him and his pee stopped instantly, crawling back up his urethra into his bladder. His brain finally came online, and he realized he was butt naked. His heart raced as he grabbed for a towel off the hanger to pull around his waist. Instead of a full towel, he'd grabbed a hand towel.
"Ben?" a male voice called out softly.
Male. He was naked in another man's house. What the fuck had happened last night.
He couldn't figure out what to say. He'd left the bathroom door open in his rush to get to the toilet, he realized too late. It felt ridiculous, but he held the small hand towel in front of his manhood, one hand on his belly.
"Ben?" the voice called again. The man peeked in the bathroom, then jumped back. "Oh. Sorry. You should close the door, yea?"
Ben stepped forward and slid the door closed plunging the room into darkness. It took him three times of groping the wall before he found the light switch. His reflection looked back at him as the light came on, and he looked like shit. Dark bags under his eyes competed with his five o'clock shadow. His disheveled hair didn't help, either, the full package made him look like a crazy man.
"Sorry," he finally said, his lips puffy and mouth sticky. He turned the water on and caught some in his hands, then rinsed his mouth out a few times.
"Um. Yeah. So, I made some eggs, if you're hungry," the man said.
He couldn't remember last night, and the sun had been too bright for him to see the man's face, but his voice was vaguely familiar. He gauged his hunger, and as if woken by the attention, his stomach turned violently. "Not hungry," he declared, unsure if he was ready to go back to solid foods. "Where're my clothes?"
"Okay, so, don't freak out, okay?" the man said.
Finally his brain caught up. "Dean?"
"Yeah," he agreed. "You feeling okay?"
"Dean Kaczmarek? From IT?"
"Yes, that Dean. Your clothes aren't dry yet, I threw them in the washer last night. They're drying now. Don't freak out, okay?"
"Like, Dick-sucker Dean?" Why'd he say that out loud?
He heard an exasperated sigh. "There're towels above the toilet, in the cupboard. Feel free to take a shower," Dean said, his voice flat. "I'll stay out, you can stay in my room until your clothes are dry. Probably another fifteen minutes. Then you can leave, yea?"
He waited for Dean to leave, and swore he heard Dean mutter the word 'douche' under his breath. Ben exhaled when he heard the bedroom door shut, then felt like a tool. He shouldn't have called him that, even if it was what everyone else called him at work. Dean's sexuality had been flaunted around the office after the jilted wife of his previous boss and lover exposed it publicly. Dean's boss eventually quit, and Dean had been transferred, but the rumors were juicy enough to persist.
He showered, using Dean's body wash, rubbing it onto his body with his hands. It smelled good, like Dean's bed, soothing his aching head. He rinsed clean, scrubbing the remnant jizz from his lower belly.
Realization hit him hard. He'd slept in Dick-sucker Dean's bed. He was naked. He'd had an intense sex dream, then had woken up with jizz on his belly. Why was he here? Oh god, what had he done last night? Had he been drunk enough to have sex with Dick-sucker Dean? He tried to picture Dean in his head but couldn't, he had the body shape and hair right, but couldn't remember his face.
How'd this happen? How'd he go home with a guy he'd seen so little at work that he knew more about Dick-sucker Dean than the actual Dean?
His face heated shamefully as he finished his shower and dried off. He peeked out of the bathroom, checking if the coast was clear, before stepping back into Dean's room. He noticed his clothes, folded in a neat pile, just inside the closed door. Why'd Dean bother folding them, when he was going to wear them immediately. Gay people were weird.
He picked them up and began dressing. They were still warm from the dryer. It was incredibly comforting, his warm clothes, even if they didn't smell like his laundry detergent. His jeans were softer than normal, and he wondered what gay magic Dean had worked on them.
He looked around at Dean's room, trying to remember his face. Two of the walls in the room were a pale green that reminded him of Irish Spring soap and the other two were a mix of green and gray that complimented the other color well. It wasn't very big, the queen sized mattress and desk took up most of the room.
He was surprised to find it was relatively sparse, a white painted wooden dresser against the wall on the other side of the bed. The mattress was tucked into the corner, up against the wall on two sides. It didn't have a headboard or frame, it sat on box springs directly on the floor. The sheets were a pale blue, and were mostly hidden under a dark gray quilt. There was a desk next to the window with a huge computer monitor on it, surrounded by a variety of empty energy drink cans in every color of the rainbow. A large black computer sat on the floor underneath. The side of it glowed blue, then changed to green as he watched. It slowly phased into purple, then a deep red.
There was a huge canvas of abstract art on the wall, at least four by three feet. Four three-inch wide bands of deep red paint streaked down the middle of the canvas, the paint textured, as if it had several layers under it. Splotches of pastels were scattered around the canvas almost haphazardly, but the more he stared at it, the more drawn in he was. The splotches were streaked in places, as if there had been too much paint on the brush and it had dripped down the canvas. He leaned closer and found speckles of the dark red from the lines, there were black ones, too, he noticed, nearly concealed by larger splotches of pastels.
There was a knock on the door just before his fingers could brush over the red paint, and he pulled his hand back guiltily. "Ben, did you find your clothes?"
"Ah, yeah," he said. "Coming. Just got dressed."
Dean opened the door, but didn't step inside. Ben studied his face, remembering him now. He had reddish brown hair, which was currently sticking up in all directions from an obvious case of bed head. His eyes were steel gray, accented by sharp cheekbones. Ben stared too long, he realized it when Dean blushed, then ducked his head and headed down the hall.
Ben followed him. "Uh, hey," he said, struggling to ask the question on his mind, afraid of the answer.
Dean didn't turn around. "What?"
Dean lead him to the door. "Did we, ah... I mean, I was naked and, um, stuff, on my, ah... In your bed. Naked, um, with no clothes. Did we, ah, um, did I..."
The look on Dean's face shut his babbling mouth for him. "Are you asking me if we had sex?"
Ben blanched, unable to ask. He nodded his head, feeling like a child being scolded by the principal.
Dean sighed, completely annoyed. "No, we didn't have sex. I don't do straight guys. You drank. And drank some more. And then some more. Your," he used air quotes here, "your 'friends', were tired of you crying about how you missed your ex-girlfriend from, like, six months ago or something. They left your ass at the bar. You passed out, and everyone left, and I couldn't just leave you there alone.
