Page 98 of Phobia

I feel something then that causes my heart to stutter. Another hand covering my own, the softest, coldest skin sliding against mine. I want to open my eyes so badly, but I’ll be a good boy. I’ll obey.

“Grip yourself. That’s it.”The hand on mine presses my fingers all the way around my shaft. “Now pump.”

I do, sliding up and down while maintaining the constant pressure, feeling that hand over mine.

“Slide over the tip. Good boy.”

I gasp as our hands clasp the head of my cock, gather a fat drop of pre-cum, and use it to ease our way back down. My lips tremble as I let out a tiny whimper of pleasure.

“Feels good,” I purr, seeking more friction, gaining in confidence.

“Good. That’s good. Keep going. I want to watch you come.”

Spurred on by that voice and the knowledge that I’m being watched even if it’s only a dream, I begin to tug with more vitriol, sliding my hand up and down myself, gathering more slick to cover the entire shaft and ease the way. The glide is euphoric, the feeling unlike anything I’ve ever dared to give myself.

It’s all because of him. Is he a figment of my imagination? Is he a dream? Is he real? God, what if this is all my imagination? What if none of it is real?

“I want to see you,” I beg.

“Not yet. Soon. Keep going. Keep those pretty eyes closed.”

Tears come as I continue to pump, feeling my cresting release. I want to touch, to hold, to see. But instead, I focus only on the feeling, the pleasure swallowing me whole inside its burgeoning waves.

“That’s it. Let go, sweet one. Let go.”

I shatter, and waves of sticky wetness explode from deep within me, painting my chest, my fist, my stomach. I’m floating on a high unlike any I’ve ever felt, my entire body singing in ecstasy, pulsing with euphoria.

I gulp in air, hands falling to the bedsheets, twisting to keep myself still.

“Keep them closed, Adrien. Good boy.”

Am I awake? Asleep? Somewhere in between? In a suspended state of reality where nothing matters but pleasure? I don’t know. But wherever I am, I feel a body’s weight press beside me in bed. It leans over me, breath ghosting over my front, over my exposed and vulnerable neck.

“No fear,”says the voice. “My turn.”

I feel the warmth of a mouth against my throat, a wet tongue caressing my Adam’s apple. Two sharp points graze my flesh, and I don’t even have time to panic before I succumb to darkness, to the deepest sleep.

I awake to a fresh, clean body, no remnants of the night’s escapade left to cover my skin. Someone was here. It wasn’t a dream. Someone cleaned me up, took care of me while I slept.And I’m not afraid.

That knowledge fills me with something absolutely molten hot. Something inside me has slipped free, come alive. And itwants. It wants to know more about the presence, the voice, the hand that touched me.

So the following night, I don’t intend to sleep. I don’t intend to close my eyes. When the presence visits, I intend to be fully awake. I intend to see.

But it doesn’t come back. For the next week, it doesn’t return. And I begin to feel like myself again. Begin to feel that niggling anxiety return as my confidence wanes.

Am I going crazy? Was the presence something I made up? I favor that over thinking that it simply lost interest in me. That I fulfilled whatever purpose it had for me, and now I’m once again discarded like trash.

Perhaps that’s all I am.

The dayithappens starts like any other.

It’s been over a week and a half since I’ve felt the presence, and I’ve begun to give up. But then on my way to work, I feel something similar. The feeling of being watched. Dark eyes keeping time with my movements, peering out from the shadows.

Much like the first time I felt it, though, this presence feels different. Sinister. Stalking.

I look around, hoping to make contact, but there’s nothing and no one. My imagination? Wishful thinking? I don’t know.

That feeling of being watched continues all through my workday. But when I attempt to make contact, no one is there. I’m suspicious, titillated. Excited. I hope it’shim,my mystery lover. I know how insane that sounds, but I don’t care. I want to feel different. I want to be different. I want to experience it all again.This time, with my eyes wide open.