Of course that means that my body is reacting. I can feel myself moving; a subtle shift of muscle and bone as my well-trained shell obeys its earthly master. I observe from the shadows of my mind, which is still unconscious. I've never been the type to wake easily or suddenly, even when someone is manipulating my body. Hell, nothing short of a shotgun blast next to my ear can rouse me with any speed, and Brian touching me is no exception. I think he likes it, that he can spend considerable time on foreplay without my conscious involvement. When we're both fully awake, he's more of a 'fuck more now' kind of guy, eschewing foreplay for penetration five minutes ago. It's part of his image--the stalking predator who doesn't give his prey a chance to get comfortable before leaping in for the kill.

In reality, though, Brian likes foreplay. He enjoys getting to touch, to feel and taste and admire at length. He just doesn't want any witnesses, so I don't let on that I know what he's doing. I may be a talkative sort, but one of the things I've never told anyone, most especially him, is that I'm fully aware of his tender attentions when I'm asleep. When he first started doing it, I chalked up the memories as dreams. The thing is, this is no dream; it can't be. I'm too fucking aware of what's going on. I'd say it was lucid dreaming, but I have no control over the action, no way to stop or start or dictate what he touches. It's not a true dream because every fucking time it starts, I end up waking up to him either inside me or just about to split me in two--no exceptions, no false starts, and no illusions. Thus, this is no dream. It's him, being gentle and loving and, dare I say, romantic... when witnesses are absent and he's got all the time in the world.

I'm happy to indulge him, and not just because it invariably results in me getting laid by the best fuck on the Eastern Seaboard. Brian doesn't like to share of himself, not the parts he truly values. Everyone gets to see the Kleenex-throwaway parts of him, like the asshole façade and the stud persona. Sex-god-Brian is an easy lay; lover-Brian is really damned picky. I'm the only one who gets to experience him these days, and I seriously doubt many before have seen him either. Maybe before he got kicked around a few times, but I get the feeling he got kicked often enough early enough to never let anyone that close to him. I had to sneak in when he was distracted, and it was damn hard to get there.

Touching.

His tongue is on my skin, wet warmth waking up nerves as it travels from my neck downward. Contact between it and my nipple ring threatens to shock me into wakefulness, but he's too careful for that. Easy, lightweight lapping sends tiny flashes of white light behind my eyelids, rousing me into one of those lower levels of semi-consciousness. Then he's moved on, teasing my navel. The tiniest bit more there and I'd be awake; I think I can hear myself panting. My mind says I should be, so I probably am. I wonder if he knows just how much I love this, how much I love being at his mercy. It's a good thing I have a good grasp on my identity, or I'd lose myself in wanting him to touch me.

I think Brian likes my cock a lot. As a gay man, he should; what fag doesn't like cock? And yes, I have a rather nice cock; it won't win awards like his, but that's because I don't share it like he shares his. But what I mean is that Brian likes my cock. He always spends some of this foreplay-time with it; petting it, holding it, and probably admiring it. He likes to measure it, with his eyes and his hands. That's what he's doing right now, just holding my cock in his palm, agile fingers clasped loosely as though to keep it from leaping away from him. The sensation of being held in that warm hand draws me closer to consciousness; I'm half-hard and getting harder by the second, my blood answering the call of his skin. My body is paralyzed, but my mind is vibrating with anticipation, perched on the edge of waking up and ruining Brian's foreplay in exchange for faster, harder and more real sensations. It's like watching Rocky Horror and hitting pause right as Frank is leaning at the elevator. My mind-voice is chanting 'say it, say it, say it' as I slog my way through the last vestiges of unconsciousness. Just a little bit more and my eyes will be open, crashing this moment.

Say it. Say it. Say it. Say it.

I'm slammed into wakefulness in a crush of cracked screaming and gasping breaths, my body twisting and jerking. It takes my mind and body a second to get in sync, at which time I'm informed that the incredible sensation that's brought me here is his mouth on my cock. Oh god, his mouth. It's hot and wet and tight; I can feel every fucking taste bud just sitting there, pressing against my dick--probably leaving imprints. His lips are soft, stretched around me, sealing in all that moist heat. Soon, soon, I know he'll move, smirk firmly in place even before my dick slides out of his mouth. He'll reach up and that smirk will slide into a grin and then we'll fuck.

Say it. Come on you sick fuck, say it.

Only he's not moving. My cock is starting to hurt and I want him to suck it or let it go, or fuck me or do something. Read the newspaper, get a cup of coffee, get me off but damn it don't just lay there. My cock isn't candy, no matter how he treats it; it won't melt in his mouth. If anything, it gets more substantial the longer he leaves it there. My asshole is beginning to twitch, anticipating...

Say it goddamn you.

I want to force the issue, shove my hands in his hair and thrust into his mouth. It's what he'd do if our positions were reversed...but they aren't and I'm not him and unless he's given me the ok for such a game, I'll have to make do with wanting to fuck his face. The air around his head is charged and my fingers get little shocks as they glide through it. The contact between us isn't enough--and who would have thought that Brian's mouth on my cock wouldn't be enough--so I let my fingers slide along his skin, petting here and there. Reminding him that I'm more than just a blood-warm blow-up doll. Look at me, I'm a real boy! And hey, real boys like action.

Touch me.

He's laughing at me. I can tell, with absolute certainty, that somewhere in the gorgeously festering depths of his twisted mind, he's laughing his ass off that I'm at his mercy and didn't even put up a fight. I'm almost at the end of my very short tether, so I not-so-gently remind him that I'd like some more. Please sir, I'd like some more. Now. If I push any harder I'm going to have his skin peeled off and littering the sheets like confetti. He'll be marked regardless, angry red scratches attesting to the fact that my control is sorely lacking--if it's even in existence.

I think I'm moaning, but I'm not sure. There are some fucking strange sounds in this room right now, and his mouth is full. Of me. My mouth is full of...Touch me damn you. I'll beg if you want me to. Just touch me. Say it. Touch me. Touch. Me. Say. It.

At the very moment I decide to take matters into my own hands--and hips--he decides to fucking move. And fuck if the contrary bastard doesn't pull off me and quicker than I can blink, the world is moving in funny ways. Why am I staring at the wall behind the bed? Why is my cock cold? Why--

oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god

The familiar mantra reinforces the obvious fact that his tongue is in my ass. Wet, soft-hard, firm and pressing oh fuck just there. He knows where every nerve ending is and he's playing them like a maestro. My skin wants to crawl down there to get in on the fun; my lips are jealous that he's plying my hole and not them. At least my cock has stopped complaining for the moment; it's dripping happily on my stomach. I groan, the sound dredging itself up from the base of my cock and slithering out my throat like a serpent. I want something, I'm just not sure what. He's holding me still so I can't thrust my hips into his face; instead I suffice with ruining the sheets and thrashing my head around. My hair tangles in my eyes, burning slightly, but does nothing to ground me. He should be moving on now, shoving a finger or four in my ass and getting me ready for his cock. And, of course, he should be fastidiously licking the precome off my abdomen and pressing open-mouthed kisses on my dick. He should be fucking me.

god help me help me fuck me god fuck me fuck god help fuck me

Something inside me releases, like an elastic band stretched too far. It doesn't break; it just...gives. Whatever-it-is slides easily to its maximum extension and then stays there. My cock will probably never go soft and my asshole just sold itself to his mouth. I don't care anymore; he can do whatever the fuck he pleases. The pleasure hurts; it fucking stings and bites and claws like a cat in heat. I'm passive, laid open and glistening with blood I can't exactly see but am sure is there. I can smell it and the tension in the room, all thick and heady with mocking arousal.

Then something changes. It's there, and my entire body shouts a frantic wake-up call. Stretch, press, burn and oh fuck his cock is there right there. I wait, anticipate and don't even get a chance to blink or want him to do anything when the tease makes good on itself.

He's there.

There.

All the way there, his cock in as far as it can physically go, farther than anyone has a right to be. His balls smack my ass and I swear the tip of his cock is nudging my tongue. Oh fuck is he ever there, as big as ever but bigger than life at the moment. I want him deeper, I want his entire body fucking my hole. Climb inside me, there's room in here for you. Shove me aside and make yourself at home. I welcome his tongue with mine, enthralled as always by finding my taste on it. It's so at home there, like I've always belonged in his mouth, on his cock and gripped in his hands. I swear I'm inside him, slipping into him alongside my tongue. I can feel my heart thumping against his, my hands sliding along his hands, my cock thrusting into a tight hole--his, not mine, since mine is filled with his cock--and I wonder if we're really just one body with two minds sharing it. It's an oddly masturbatory thought, and one I won't mind losing when he does that thrust push thrust grip slide thrust harder push thrust again.

I bite his lip just to make sure we're really two bodies really close together and this isn't a fucking dream. I don't have to pinch myself; the impossible stretch of my hole around his dick keeps me infinitely aware of my own consciousness. His body, though, it could be asleep and I'm a figment of his imagination. And now oh god, say it say it say it we're coming, nerves firing and wiping away my mind's inane chattering about oneness.

This is oneness, his dick swelling and both our assholes clenching, lungs crying out for relief, fingers tightening against the slickness of sweaty skin. I can feel my come trying to cement us together, aided by the weight of his body as it slumps harder against me. We're sinking in the mattress and I think he might be thinking of saying something, but I hope he doesn't. My ears aren't working; they're still ringing with aftershocks of fuck just say it oh fucking god one hell of an orgasm.

We're moving now, some untold time later. It mustn't have been long; his cock isn't really soft yet when the condom comes off. I wonder who did that? The thought fades from my mind as our bodies stray away from Brian-touching-me and return to us-touching. I like this all-too-infrequent post-coital arrangement of limbs intertwined under my favorite blue velvet folly, sharing the heat we just finished creating.