My first attempt to write a fic in first-person. I tried to leave the descriptions of the main character vague enough that anyone can see themselves in his place, but this is a little bit of a self-insert in terms of his sex partners.
Tell me what you think!
~*~
I had gone through all the rituals, performed every move correctly, worn the appropriate garments. I'd checked and double-checked my pronunciation of every syllable in the spell, and now I was about to reap my reward.
The sigil of white sand poured on the carpet glowed, blazing with power as incense filled the air. Dragon's blood, sandalwood, myrrh...thick, woody, musty scents, the type to leave your senses reeling and your head spinning from their sheet, raw density. The smoke formed patterns in the air above the circle, and I knew I'd done everything right. The candles burned in circles, almost creating a fire hazard in the confines of my bedrooom...I didn't care. They kept me warm.
I'd been pursuing the secrets to this ritual like a man possessed, and now it was mine. As I watched, the sand caught fire, intense orange flames that gave off light and warmth, but didn't burn or generate smoke, and a vaguely humanoid shape appeared in the midst of the pattern.
It spoke in a language I didn't understand, alternating between rough Germanic syllables and softer, Romanesque consonants almost by whim. But I understood it...part of the terms of the spell...and the voice itself seemed to vibrate straight through me, made me long to tear off the robes I'd put on for the ceremony. As it was supposed to.
"You know why you've been summoned, spirit. I'm calling upon you to do what you do best."
Its gaze...or what I assumed to be its gaze...bored into me, and it nodded, speaking a short phrase in that hard-and-soft language that translated into acquiescence. Suddenly I felt myself slip into a dream-like state, and the visions began...
...I was back in high school, in the school locker room, a place I'd refused to go except for PE classes. No athlete was I, nor any sort of physical prize. I was changing out of my gym clothes when he came in. The captain of the wrestling team. The picture of muscular, late-adolescent perfection. A younh man of Irish features and complexion, his hair short and bleached blonde and the beginnings of a goatee on his face, I wanted him as much as I disliked him...we had nothing in common, rarely spoke. But he stripped in front of me without a single word, and we both grew older with every article of clothing he removed, until I was again my present age and he, a year my senior was extrapolated to what my fantasies decreed he must look like today. Now nearly nude, he sat on the bench and gestured to the red Speedos he wore as underwear, and the bulging package inside. I understood, and rejoiced...there would be no need for pretense, no false attempts friendship here, but neither would I be bullied as I had always feared but had never come to pass. We were two men, alone and horny, and would do what two men were meant to do in such a situation.
I pushed him gently onto his back on the bench, taking my time to feel those marvelous, steely pectorals under my hands, then grabbed the waistband of that accursed, tempting underwear and skinned it off his muscular, pale legs, spreading them apart before I dove for my prize between them...not his impressive cock or luscious, laden balls, but the dark pink rosebud of his perfect, tantalizing ass. Those blue eyes slid closed as he let out a deep moan, his kissable lips curving into one of those lazy, self-satisfied smiles, and he thrust his hips back and forth in time with my greedily fucking tongue, jerking his cock as he did so. My cock hardened without the slightest touch from me as I buried my tongue in him again and again, my hands everywhere on his dense, Apollonian physique...he was a wrestler, not a bodybuilder, and had the requisite muscles of one.
I flipped him over and lay atop him, my cock hard as a rock as it slid between those big, muscular cheeks. I thrust into the saliva-soaked crack of his ass, never penetrating...I had no desire to actually fuck him...but sliding back and forth inside the crevice as I totally possessed his bulky frame with my own. He sucked my proffered fingers, moaning in appreciation for the sensations I was offering him, and I licked all over that muscled back as my hips became a gyrating blur of rising desperation. Finally, he let loose with a muffled scream of pleasure around my fingers as his cum soaked his chest, belly, and the bench beneath us, his rump cheeks clenching tightly around me as I kissed, licked, and bit the thick cords of muscle at the nape of his neck. I was about to blow my own load between those perfect globes...
...When the scene changed. I was no longer alone, nor naked. Now I was in the middle of a screaming crowd, the scene awash in hormones as excitement surged through the air like arc lightning.
Onstage was another man of my dreams...one of my favorite singers from my youth, during the Latin craze people tried so hard to forget. His perfect, bronzed skin gleamed in the stage lights, and fathomless dark eyes seemed to watch me, and me alone, throughout his performance...when he wasn't closing them, lost to the passion of his slow, throbbing ballads or sweaty, sensationalist dance numbers. Every move of his leather-clad ass was the picture of sensuality, the bulge in the front of his pants seeming to grow more pronounced every time my wandering eye caught it. His voice surged through me, deafening me to the roar of the crowds as it sent my cock surging to life again. His performance ended with a particularly saucy number, and it was all I could do not to drop trow and beat off to him right there, right then...and then my hand closed around the Backstage Pass hanging around my neck.
It wasn't long before I was in his dressing room, and those lips that sang of undying love and wild abandon were locked to mine. My idol peeled off his shirt to reveal the most perfect chest in existence, and I was overjoyed to find out that in my dream, his nipples were particularly sensitive. So I spent minutes hearing him moan and gasp aloud as I worked them, with lips and teeth and tongue. When I peeled those leather pants off, his maleness popped up as if it were spring-loaded, not the biggest I'd ever seen, but the perfect size for me to ride as he sat in the chair of his dressing room mirror, the angle magically perfect for us both to watch his lubed cock slide in and out of me as I rode it, our moans of pleasure and lust mingling together more perfectly to my ears than any duet he could ever sing. He wrapped his arms around my chest and fucked me uninhibitedly, his voice whispering filthy, wonderful litanies of praise to me in English and Spanish, until I heard him let out a noise between a scream and a grunt as he unloaded volley after volley of his seed into me, our lips and tongues meeting sloppily as his balls dumped every last drop of seed he had into my hungry, willing ass...
...And I was in the middle of a clearing in the woods, watching my father play with rockets. Except...he wasn't my father. He was more like a mix of every father figure I'd ever had in my life, with traits from every one merged into a single picture of paternal perfection. His fiery red hair gleamed in the sunlight, his massive frame bent over as he studied the machines with an intensely scrutinous gaze. He smiled at me with genuine warmth and camaraderie as he invited me to try launching one, and laughed in real triumph and pride as my rocket launched into the air behind his. Impulsively, I kissed him, and he returned the affection, suddenly a much younger man...a man of my own age. No talks were had of incest, of wrongdoing or secrecy...this was the most natural thing in the world, kissing the man who meant the world to me, who had cared for me my whole life, in his own way. This "Dream-Father" whispered things no father of mine would say as he shed his clothes, revealing a solid, stocky, massive body, a form out of heroic fantasy. Surely no man I had ever known possessed such a build, but I was past caring, simply embracing it and revelling in it as I took his tool, the member that had made me, into my hands and mouth. We lay naked on the grass together, under the sun's rays, and locked in a 69, he the ultimate father, I the lustful, degenerate son. Both of us incredibly, marvelously equal at that perfect moment in time.
His mouth did things to me no straight man's ever could, and I had flashes in my mind...fantasies of his illicit activities with other men, brought to life around us in a tableau of 3-dimensional porn. In them, he fucked and was fucked, sucked and was sucked, insistent on being reciprocal in all his dealings, a man of morals even as he flagrantly flouted the rules of monogamy with man after man. I could only hope to one day be as accomplished in the arts of male love as he.
We flipped around and embraced, hot and sweaty and needful, chest to chest, cock to cock, and writhed in each other's arms, our skin and body hair grinding against each other. He said my name roughly, hoarsely, and exclaimed his impending orgasm...and I held on to him for dear life, wrapping arms and legs around him as my dream father's seed splashed every inch of me...
I was back in the room, shuddering and panting, the ache of lust strong between my legs. My robe had fallen from my shoulders and I was nude, the featureless form in the fire staring at me with what I could only describe as satisfaction. It controlled my visions, pulling them from my deepest, darkest desires, and I was just along for the ride. I knew that this was just a breather...it knew how to wring every drop of pleasure from its "clients" before finally letting them have their release, and when it was done with me, I would have enough sexual fantasies and delicious, salacious memories to last the rest of my life.
And then it would be my invoked friend's turn to demand a boon of its own...
