Dreamworld

It's not that Sean didn't see and understand the effect he had on other men; it's just that since he entered his dreamworld with jacko242, he didn't really give a shit. And it wasn't as if he hadn't been a player before he had succumbed to his new world.

His boss in the architectural firm had known Sean would put out—and he certainly had no inkling why Sean still wasn't putting out. There was that corner office on the second floor he'd been grooming Sean for—and that he'd been holding over Sean's head to get every ounce of tail out of his young and winsome employee that he could get. Phil Ocksen thought of Sean as his last fling, a delicious confection he could poke at will. Phil wasn't exactly decrepit yet, but he was moving along in age. He was doing all of the right things in diet and exercise and grooming, and, yes, although he wouldn't admit it, a bit of a nip and tuck here and there.

He was just as presentable, however, as the day he trapped Sean in the filing room and almost blatantly asked Sean what he would do to get that raise he wanted. This had led, just as he'd hoped it would, to fucking Sean on the Xerox machine—with the machine scanning and flipping out images of Sean's flattened buttocks and spread thighs and the underside Phil's very nice cock as it buried itself in Sean's ass and reappeared only to bury itself again. Far from being ashamed of his cock and balls—which have never seen the edge of a plastic surgeon's knife, he wants to make quite clear—Phil had saved the Xeroxes and to this day takes them out now and again to reminisce about the day he conquered that particular conquest.

But Phil didn't know about jacko242. So that afternoon when he was leaning over Sean to look at some blueprints on Sean's drafting table and was murmuring about how the light was so much better to view these blueprints in that now-empty corner office on the second floor AND was unbuttoning a button on Sean's sports shirt and running his fingers in to find a nipple hiding in the soft blond down on Sean's chest, Phil had no idea why Sean wasn't reacting as he wished. Sean was being polite and attentive, but he was making no effort whatsoever to warm up to Phil's signaling. Only four weeks earlier this nipple play would have had Sean on his back on the floor, reaching up to Phil's belt buckle as Phil knelt between Sean's spread legs, and pulling Phil's cock inside him while sighing sweet nothings about "big daddy."

Sean wanted that corner office—and he sure as hell wanted the subsidy Phil gave him for the house on Queensbury Row—so Phil assumed that there was some pale of desirability and acceptability that he himself had passed beyond that made him less attractive to Sean. He checked himself in the mirror on the way back to the office. Yep, same forgivingly matured face and full head of hair with distinguished graying at the temples. Same straight back and flat stomach. He reached his hand down. Yep, the same nice cock dressed left in his tailored slacks. But were those crows' feet at the corners of his eyes? Surely that couldn't have been enough for Sean to spurn him. Still, he'd have his secretary, Mavis, call his plastic surgeon.

Sean left the office that afternoon, not even fully aware that he had cut off an advance by Phil. He wasn't thinking of Phil at all. His mind was in that small room at the end of the corridor on the second floor of his house. The one he padded to naked, on bare feet, at night when the house was dark and silent other than the soft snoring of Rod.

He almost absentmindedly entered the backseat of the Lincoln Town Car. Phil had thoughtfully provided this service to take the senior staff members into the exclusive old section of the city where parking was at such a premium and life was so self-contained that many did not have cars and those who did preferred not to take them out of whatever premium parking space they had finally scored.

Phil had instituted the car service two years previously, and Julio had served as the executives' chauffeur from day one. Julio liked the job. The transport hours for the firm's executives worked quite well around his sessions at the gym, where he was training hard to be a champion heavyweight boxer. Other than driving and working out in the gym, Julio had only one vice: cute-looking and saucy blond male tail. Sean had been a hot little number when Julio had come on board, and it hadn't taken long to figure out that the boss, Phil Ocksen, was fucking this nice piece of tail. Julio wanted some of that for himself, and within two weeks of coming on board, Sean had been game for the long ride home and a somewhat shorter but very explosive ride from Julio in the back of the Town Car, with Sean's heels leveraging off the back of the front seat and Julio knelt between Sean's legs and pile driving his puckered ass.

Since that first fucking, Sean had been willing to drop trou and spread legs on just one meaningful look from Julio in the rear view mirror. The cute young blond was a veritable male nympho. And Julio enjoyed manhandling him and listening to him groan and moan as a dark tan Hispanic monster cock slowly buried itself inside him and Julio started a fast and furious ride that benefited greatly from many hours of thrusting and parrying in the practice boxing ring.

All of this was right up until a couple of weeks ago. And then the arrangement had died cold, very dead, turkey. Julio didn't know what was wrong, but his cock missed the tight warmth of Sean's channel. Maybe Sean was getting that promotion he was always talking about and it just hadn't been announced. Maybe Sean was going up in the world—he certainly had a tight fist on Phil Ocksen's balls, so there was nothing he couldn't ask for in the architectural firm—and maybe Sean was getting uppity. He was a really, really nice piece of ass, and up to recent weeks he'd been so randy for the fucking Julio could give him that he almost begged for it whenever he entered the Town Car. But not now. When Julio gave him "that look" in the rear view mirror, Sean wasn't even looking. His eyes were glazed over, and he was off in some dreamworld somewhere.

Uppity or not, Julio felt like driving into the woods and parking and coming up over the seat back into the backseat and giving Sean the rough fuck of his life. A couple of weeks ago Sean even would have loved that. But not now. Now he was off in a world of his own where Julio was transparent. Julio's cock and balls ached to be fucking the blond little piece of ass. But most of all his pride was aching. An Hispanic fucking the lights out of a little blond Gringo. Now that had been worth talking about down at the gym.

It wasn't anything Sean was holding against Julio specifically or Hispanics in general, though. Julio just didn't know about jacko242.

Sean barely waved an acknowledgment of Julio's good-bye when they arrived in Queensbury Row, and, anger rising inside him, Julio flipped Sean off—but well below the window sill of the Town Car, as Julio wanted to keep his cushy job—and pulled the Lincoln away from the curb and into traffic a bit faster than was really warranted.

Hearing the squeal of the tires, the occupant of the townhouse next door to Sean's, one Professor Steven Connolly, paused at the door while rummaging around in his mailbox and cast a forlorn eye on Sean ascending absentmindedly to his own front door. Steven almost called out something to Sean. But then he stopped, sad, in resignation, and stepped back into the shadows of his foyer.

That phase of Professor Connolly's life was closed now. And although the professor didn't know why it had been cut off so abruptly and so definitively, not more than a month earlier, he could recognize "the end" to an affair as well, if not better than most. Sean had been such an open and fun-loving young man. When Connolly's long-term companion had died, Sean had been so sympathetic and understanding and had provided just the medicine the grieving professor had needed. He had pulled Connolly out of his blue funk one gloomy afternoon in the study in his home, when Sean had taken him by the hand and pushed him gently down into his desk chair. He then had knelt in front of Connolly, slowly unzipped his pants, and sucked Connolly's cock to paradise. After that Sean had stripped off his own clothes and sat on Connolly's now-very-hard cock, facing him, and had slowly fucked himself to their mutual completion and satisfaction.

Subsequently, on most workday evenings, Sean had mounted the stairs to Connolly's Queensbury Row townhouse before entering his own when arriving home from work. Connolly had waited for him, trembling, in the foyer, and then the two had ascended the stairs, hand in hand, and in silence moved to the bedroom where, for decades, Connolly and his companion had made love. And just then, for that brief afternoon period, Connolly was transported back to happier times as Sean laid down on his back on the bed and spread his thighs and Connolly sank his cock deep into the younger man's world.

And then, just when Connolly was building up to the suggestion of a more permanent arrangement, Sean had just stopped coming for their late-afternoon assignations. No explanations, no harsh words, no formal ending—just an abrupt, total ending. Now Sean mounted his own stairs when he returned from work, no longer visiting the house next door to be mounted by Professor Connolly. And always that blank expression on Sean's face as if he was totally off in another world.

Steven Connolly had no idea what had changed—but then he knew nothing about jacko242. All Connolly knew was that he had not left his house since Sean's last visit—everything he needed he had had delivered—and that he spent his late afternoons tangled in the sheets of his lost companion's bed, naked, and writhing against the sheets, fucking the sheets, until he had exhausted himself and relieved his grief and loneliness in spent cum and tears.

When Sean entered his Queensbury Row house, his senses were immediately assaulted. There was humming in a deep baritone coming from the kitchen and from there as well the smells of an oregano-laced spaghetti sauce. The combination of the two meant that it was Italian night. It also signaled that Rod was in high heat and wanted to fuck on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace.

Sean sighed and checked through the mail. All of the time he was doing this, though, and listening to his lover's humming from the kitchen, Sean's mind had already mounted the stairs and walked deliberately down the hall to the small room at the end—and to jacko242. It just wasn't time yet, though. Sean ached for the hours to slip by until the appointed time.

Sighing again, Sean turned and moved toward the kitchen. He knew what he would find, and he was right. Enhanced aromas of the cooking sauce, two glasses of Burgundy on the island top, and a smiling, naked, black-skinned god in full erection. Rodney Singleton had come into Sean's life just a bit more than a year earlier. A star receiver of the metropolitan area's professional football team, he had come to Sean's architectural firm, annual bonus in hand, wanting to build his dream house on the cliffs overlooking the sea in a nearby suburb. At this point Phil Ocksen had made possibly the biggest mistake of his life. He had turned the big black hunk over to Sean for drawing up the concept layouts for the project, and within an hour of their meeting, Sean was bent over the toilet in the small bathroom off his office and Rod was crouched over him from behind, palming Sean's pert little nipples in his big football-receiver's mitts, and giving Sean as deep a doggy fuck as he'd ever had.

Rod moved in with Sean rather than building that house, and Phil lost not only the client but also a good chunk of Sean's sexual favors. Rodney's sexual demands were enough to exhaust a horse.

Rodney was highly sexed and not all that observant, which was probably just fine for his mental well-being. He had barely even noticed that Sean had been somewhere else—in his own dreamworld—for weeks.

When Sean had entered the kitchen and taken a sip of Burgundy with hardly any greeting at all—or any appreciative look at that magnificent cock rising below Rod's washboard belly and bulging, barrel chest—Rodney completely failed to notice Sean's vacant expression when, as he so often did, he murmured. "So glad you're home, baby. I'm so full of cum, I'm about to explode. Strip for me, honey. We have a good hour before the sauce is finished."

Sean absentmindedly stripped down as requested, took another sip of Burgundy, and then docilely followed Rod into the living room, to the bearskin rug, in front of a fire set in the fireplace. He laid down on his back and raised his trim ankles to the shoulders of his magnificent black lover who was kneeling between his thighs. Sean turned his head toward the mesmerizing fire and let his mind wander to that little room on the second floor and to jacko242, as, with a grunt, Rod entered him strongly with his throbbing cock and drug that thick silver cock ring along Sean's channel, deep inside him. Sean raised his hips and let them slowly drift into the familiar undulation of the rhythm of the deep fuck, his body responding, if minimally, but his mind off in its own dreamworld. Rod didn't notice that some part of Sean was missing. He hadn't had a fuck in nearly twelve hours and he needed to get his rocks off. And Sean had the sweetest passage in town. Rodney just grunted and thrust away, coming in great gobs of milky-white jism, deep inside Sean's sweet hole, just as the timer was going off for the bubbling tomato sauce.

Rodney was equally unobservant that night, when, balls once more aching for sex, he trapped Sean's compliant, docile body, belly down on the sheets, under his, gripped Sean's hips close between his knees, and rode his little blond pony hard through two mighty ejaculations. Then spent and satisfied himself, Rod rolled Sean over on his side, cock still buried, still deeply sheath even in flaccidity, and spooned Sean into his chest. Rod went into a deep, satisfied, fulfilled sleep, not needing another fuck for a good eight hours—in the morning he'd take Sean up against the tiles of the shower before Sean left for work and then he'd putter around the townhouse all day—this being his off season—except for a three-hour session in the training room down at the stadium and then be cum filled again and hard for Sean's return from work.

All a good, fulfilling day for Rodney—and especially so since he was blessedly unaware that Sean hadn't really been there, other than providing a compliant hole to poke, for several weeks. Sean had been off in his own dreamworld and in the thrall of jacko242.

Hours later, in the darkest of night, with Rodney snoring contentedly in his ear, Sean slowly and quietly disentangled himself from Rodney's possessive embrace and sat up on the side of the bed. His cock was hard and dripping with precum, and his breath was ragged—in anticipation. He was in heat for the first time today. Neither the advances of the elegant, experienced Phil in the office; nor what most young men would see as the enticement of the delectable Hispanic chauffer, Julio; nor the hopeful—eternally grateful—proffering gaze of Professor Connolly at his door—nor the exuberant attentions of the masterfucker black stud Rodney had set Sean's juices going.

But the thought of that little room down the hall and of jacko242 had done so.

Sean stood up beside the bed, still naked. He ran his hand up from his hard cock along his belly to his nipples and flicked them with his thumb. Already puffed out, hard. He padded out of the room quietly and down the hall and into the small computer room. He shut the door behind him. He knew that he might cry out upon release, and he didn't want to wake Rodney—although a temporarily well-fucked Rodney could sleep through an earthquake.

Sean sat down on the terrycloth covered desk chair and fired up the computer. When he had a browser screen, he tapped in www.mandate.net and then clicked on the profile of jacko242.

There he was, the love of Sean's life, in all of his naked glory. Beautiful, sun-kissed body. Turkish features, a well-muscled hunk with black, curly body hair. Square-cut facial features and that knowing smile. Knowing that Sean had returned to him.

Sean clicked on "live-chat," and he was there, waiting for Sean.

"You're late."

"Sorry. I'm here now. Hard to get away tonight."

"Are you hard?"

"Yes, for you always, Jacko," Sean tapped out. And that was true. He was as hard as he could be.

"Stroke it."

Sean complied.

"Is there precum yet?"

Yes, there certainly was.

"Taste it."

Sean did so. A little moan escaped his lips.

"Look at my cock in the photo. It is for you. Is it big enough for you? And thick enough?"

"Yes, oh yes."

"Close your eyes. Run your hands up my belly and into my chest hair. Feel my nipples? Hard for you."

"Yes, oh yes," Sean replied. He was leaning back in his chair, running hands up to his own nipples. As hard as he imagined Jacko's to be.

"Do you have the cock? Is it lubed?"

"Yes and yes," Sean tapped out. He reached for the dildo he had lubed up while the computer was warming up.

"Close your eyes. Work it in. It's my cock. Inside you. Making love to your walls."

For the next couple of minutes, while the computer screen murmured words of instruction and lovemaking, Sean moaned and groaned in ecstasy. His thighs were spread and hooked over the arms of his desk chair, his hips rolled forward on the front edge of the chair and one hand stroking his cock and the other working the dildo deep in his passage . . . as the honeyed phrasing of the words on the screen fucked him masterfully.

As long last, at the height of a passion that Sean had felt at no earlier point of his day, Sean gave a little cry and jerked several times as he ejaculated into the hand cloth he held over his cock head.

He looked up. The screen was blank. Jacko242 had left him. But jacko242 had left him feeling deeply touched to the very quick of him—once again. Sean would somehow have to endure through another day. Jacko242 was only there for him for this one hour of the night. Sean had no idea whether he could wait for his next deeply satisfying encounter with his jacko242.

* * * *

At a dingy workbench in the back of a double garage in suburban Jefferson City, smack dab in the middle of the flattest, most monotonous Midwestern U.S. state, Elmer Dent had quickly switched from one profile on Mandate.net to the next. It had been a touch-and-go thing. Piningblond had been late this evening—again, for the second time this week. Jacko242 thought perhaps he'd have to cut him off; he wasn't fitting into the schedule well. He flipped open to Legsopen4u, who was already there, on time, as usual.

"Are you hard?" Elmer tapped out under his jacko242 name. He ran his hand inside his robe and scratched his belly, not even bothering to look at the response from legsopen4u before tapping in the next sequence. "Stroke it." The response was always the same—as were his instructions. These computer sex junkies never seemed to notice the sameness of it all. Elmer took a swig of his beer and burped.

A faint sound, coming through several of the thin walls in the squat tract rancher. "Elmer. You out in the garage again? Come to bed and do me, hon. Turn off that computer."

Elmer sighed. That Hazel was so demanding. If she weren't the one with the job—down at the Laundromat . . .

"Just a minute, Sweetcheeks," Elmer called back, pulling his robe closer together over his paunch and reaching down and scratching his hairy balls. "Just about done out here."

And he was, in fact, just about done. Legsopen4u was his last computer sex junkie of the evening. While he'd waited for piningblond to click on, he'd browsed the new members. There was a nice-sounding profile obviously just aching for it who he might like to ride for a while. Maybe he'd give him piningblond's slot. That one was about to play out anyway. It had been four weeks.