Page 5

Jax

I’m sure that I’ve said once or twice in my life, that I wish I could just be idle, and not be a part of society, or do anything.

Like most folks, I feel just as overworked and exhausted as anyone else, but not being able to comfort the man in front of me when he’s obviously upset is a form of torture. Punishment, even.

Especially because I get it.

The loneliness, I mean.

You think you know loneliness, but you don’t, not until you’re an openly gay man in a small town with a dating pool the size of a petri dish, until conversations with everyone seem still or stunted because no one wants to really get to know you .

Not in the I-want-to-come-home-and-Netflix-and-chill-with-you way that involves actually watching sappy rom-coms on Netflix and cuddling instead of getting railed over the couch arm while watching Scream .

Which, to be fair, wouldn’t be bad either.

But there was nothing I wanted more than to be able to cry out, “me, too!” and give Hot Pants McGee a big fucking hug, one perpetually single guy to another. I can’t help but wonder if, under different circumstances, we would have met.

If I hadn’t turned into a fucking gourd, if he would have walked up to my register and batted those pretty eyelashes at me, maybe I would’ve asked him for his number. Maybe he would have just been sly and written it on the receipt.

I don’t know why, but to me he seems like the type that would bait me. The kind of guy who wants to be chased and wooed, playing hard to get but then melting like hot caramel the minute you actually get your fucking hands on them.

The moon shines through his bedroom window right over the spot where he lies in bed, casting an almost silvery halo over his dark hair and the expanse of those broad, toned shoulders, and then I feel the strangest sensation deep in my gourd core.

The melty-gooey feeling hardens like candy coating over an apple. Wet and slippery one minute, then bam! Solid and sticky the next. Pain shoots through me as I feel my pumpkin flesh contort and stretch like melted mozzarella cheese. Only a lot more painful.

I feel like I’m going to fucking explode, spontaneously combust or something as I grow larger, and then…

I fall off the dresser to the floor with a thud.

A very loud thud, and some deodorant or something hits me in the fucking head, causing me to curse.

“What the hell?” I gasp-whisper as the pain starts to subside, giving way to a fading tingle as I rub my head where I’ve been bludgeoned.

And then it hits me.

I touched my fucking head.

My fingers grasp my soft locks, and I realize all at once, two things:

One, I am not a fucking pumpkin anymore.

Two, I am very, very fucking naked and in a stranger’s house.

Shit. Shit, shit. Shit.

Hot Pumpkin Whisperer groans in his sleep, turning, and for a moment I panic. What the hell do I say if he wakes up and finds me? How the hell do I explain five seconds ago I was a Goddamn Halloween decoration and now I’m—what exactly?

I suck in a breath as the anxiety threatens to take hold.

I could just leave. That would be the smart thing to do, obviously.

Except, I don’t think I’d get very far in my birthday suit, especially at this hour.

With Halloween around the corner, the police are usually patrolling frequently at this time of night on account of all the stupid teenagers who love to tee-pee houses and throw parties or cause havoc.

Yeah, a naked guy rolling around in the dead of night looks hella sketchy.

And even if I could snatch some of Hot Halloween Daddy’s clothes over here, I doubt his clothes would fit me, given the fact that he’s all tapered waist and perfectly toned muscles built by protein shakes and quinoa, and I’ve got a body built by Grandma’s award-winning pies and beer.

I’m not the biggest guy around, and I’ve got muscle, mostly from working on the farm, but most of my hard-earned muscle is in my chest and arms because that’s what I use more than anything. My six pack is more like a four pack if I’m lucky.

There’s also this irritatingly overwhelming voice in my head that keeps yelling at me not to leave, a delusional, weird inner voice that is all mine, but somehow, it’s not.

It’s like a sixth sense or something, and I have the strangest understanding that leaving this perfect specimen now, of all times, might actually fucking kill me.

I hold my breath for a moment, watching as he shifts again in his bed, and I let out a sigh of relief when he doesn't wake.

I run both hands over my face before I look to the side where his fucking deodorant spray landed.

I pick up the small black aerosol, sniffing it.

The scent of spicy cedar makes my damn mouth water and my cock stiffen, and then I realize another terrifying truth.

I glance down at my cock, thick and solid between my legs and note the amount of dried cum coating my fucking nether regions.

Embarrassment floods my cheeks and makes my stomach flip as I think about all the times I felt that mushy, gooey vibration in my gourd, my vibrating stump, and my growing vines.

I must’ve come like five times at least, which I’d garnered wasn’t actually coming, because I didn’t have a fucking dick to come with.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good; the weird gooey-mushy feeling I got watching him fuck himself, or licking God damn mayo off his fingers while he sat and just talked to me like I was a real person.

The fact I got all turned on while the guy was just talking to me had to be a new level of desperation, even for me.

But the reality that apparently whatever happened to my pumpkin self transfers onto my human self is startling to say the least. I glance at the open door adjacent to where I am sitting, recognizing even in the dark that it’s his bathroom.

I know I probably shouldn’t, and it’s weird to just use other people’s shit without their permission, but unless I want the Hot Pumpkin Whisperer to wake up and find me naked, covered in cum on his bedroom floor, I know I need to get cleaned up.

And maybe a shower will help me clear my mind.

I can be fast. I’m a guy, it’s not like I need a ten-minute shower to freshen the fuck up.

I do my best to quietly set his deodorant back down on his dresser, tiptoeing to the bathroom. The floorboards squeak, but my mystery owner doesn’t move, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

When I’m in the bathroom, I shut the door and let out another sigh of relief.

Turning the light on, I can appreciate the simplicity of the design. Everything is sleek and modern, with tones of grey, white, and pale blue. I do my best to acclimate to the surroundings, but I have to admit my size is an issue. When I get into the shower itself, it’s a lot roomier than I expect.

Nice, big showers are definitely a luxury for a guy like me, and when I turn on the hot water, I nearly moan out of delight when I realize the showerhead is one of those high-tech fancy showerheads that feel like an out of body experience.

The showerhead above me pours water over me while the two showerheads against the wall spray at my chest and groin.

Three fucking showerheads spraying me feels better than I ever thought it would.

I glance at the products in the tiled alcove, settling on what I hope to be shampoo. It’s in an elegant, black bottle that has no label, and once I pick it up, I realize it’s glass .

Who keeps a glass bottle of anything in the shower?

Hot guys who are way out of your league, obviously.

I don’t waste time as I pump some liquid out, taking a whiff, and again, my cock twitches. It smells expensive, so I try to only use a little bit. Steam builds around me as I roughly suds up my hair, making for a bar of soap that smells just as good and unlike anything I’ve ever smelled before.

It’s earthy, but somehow sensual too. Notes of teakwood and coconut mixed with something that smells like cologne.

I lather up my body and pull the small, detachable showerhead to rinse myself from head to toe. It doesn’t take long, and before I can prolong the best shower of my life, I turn it off, realizing I didn’t think to look for a fucking towel.

“Shit,” I curse, dripping wet in his shower like an idiot. One look around the place informs me that there’s only one towel, and it’s hanging on the back of the door.

I gingerly make my way across the floor to grab it, and immediately I am accosted with his scent.

Not just the scent of his shampoo and soap, but him.

The same smell I’d noticed when he held me close now fills my lungs, and I realize this is his towel.

The one he probably used today after his shower.

It feels personal, my fist in his towel, knowing it’s been all over his naked form.

My cock twitches as guilt and desire bloom inside me.

But I know I can’t very well leave this bathroom without drying off, and I don’t want to leave wet footprints either.

So I still my racing thoughts and wrap the towel around me, knocking off his robe in the process. It crumples to the floor, and I curse again, bending to pick it up. Its soft, thick fabric feels good in my hands, and I note it’s huge.

So, Mr. Pumpkin Whisperer likes things nice and luxe.

Noted.

I use the towel to dry my hair and my body before hanging it back up on the hook. I’m about to hang the robe back up, but a part of me is intrigued, and I know I’d feel a lot less weird if I was covered in something.

So I slip my arms in the sleeves, relishing in the smooth, warm feel. Thankfully the robe kind of fits me pretty snugly, and I tie it in the front, if only to keep my stupid fucking cock in line, though I have to say the soft fabric against my deflating cock feels really, really, nice.

Like, I could totally take a nap in this thing.