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Ian
I’m still unused to the modern way of living. The clothes are scratchy and too stiff; the pants confine me and my parts more than I want them to.
But it’s the constant buzzing of electricity that’s overwhelming. The things I’ve seen on the box mounted to the wall, the things people say and do…
A shudder leaves me as I remember the short, stout man with no neck scream at the thin woman across the table from him.
People in this time are repulsive. But then I glance over at my sugarplum and all the fear and disgust from this world melts away. She’s perfect. She’s beautiful. She’s otherworldly. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a mate. I don’t know how I got so incredibly lucky.
Slurping the thick, pale banana smoothie, Lyric’s eyes meet mine and a shiver races through my body. Intimate memories of our shared splooge smoothie floods my mind, and my love sword goes impossibly hard. Her gaze drops to it, a bit of the smoothie crusted on her full lips.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you with that,” she coos, using her chin to point at the erect bulge. “I have to go see Story.” I push myself to my feet, ready to go with her, but she waves me off. “You have to stay here, pretty boy. I have to figure out how to save you.”
My eyes widen. “Save me?”
She looks reluctant as she whispers, “You’re disappearing.”
I go completely still. Disappearing? How is that possible? I glance down at myself, seeing my body whole. “I’m not.” I shake my head, refusing to believe it.
“You are.” She hesitates a step forward and reaches for me. “You’re…see-through.” I shake my head again, still staring at myself. I’m not.
But when I look back at her, ready to argue, my words die on my lips. She’s disappearing. “Lass!” I cry, jolting forward. My hands rest on either side of her face, my heart thundering in my chest. “You’re see-through! Like a ghost!”
Tears fill her eyes as she stares up at me. “You’re going to go back into your book if I don’t figure out how to save you,” she rasps. I shake my head as she speaks, my eyes squeezing shut.
“I canna lose you.”
She wraps her hands around the back of my neck, gently tugging me down until our lips crash together. Our kiss is hot and hard, like we’re eating each other’s faces. Lips, teeth, tongues clash against one another, as if we’re trying to absorb the other.
“You won’t lose me, and I won’t lose you,” she vows. “But I have to go right now. I’ll be back soon.” She chews on her bottom lip as she glances at the box on the table. “There’s something you need to do while I’m gone, though.”
“Anything,” I tell her vehemently. “Anything at all.”
Lyric dips and grabs the box, pulling one end off. She gives me a shy smile as she tips and shakes it, letting a large cylindrical thing fall out. My brows crease as she turns it around in her hands, showing me the item from every angle.
“What is it?” I ask, and her smile grows.
“See this?” She turns the rounded side toward me, showing me something that looks like—I gasp.
“Is that a honeypot?” I stumble back a step, my curiosity gone. “A honeypot! Whose is it?!”
“Yours.” She shrugs, a small giggle leaving her. I press my hand to my chest as my mouth opens, ready to protest that I most certainly do not have a honeypot. “It’s a pussy-pocket. You use it to…you know. Spank the monkey.”
I look around the room. “What monkey?”
“Beat your meat. Fire off some knuckle kids. Milk the cow.” I shake my head with every word, and she lets out a long sigh. “Play tug-of-war with the cyclops? Tickle your pickle? Butter your corn?”
“I dinna ken what you’re saying to me.”
“Choke the chicken! Crown the king! One gun salute!” I scratch my head, watching her tap her finger against her chin. “I can’t think of any more.” When I say nothing, her shoulders fall. “It’s to jack off. You use it to masturbate.”
Heat rushes into my cheeks, and I look away from her. “I dinna—I canna?—”
“Please. I know you do it. It’s fine. I need you to use this all day and empty your seed into this.” She taps the large glass jar on the table. “And don’t forget to use the lube. Oh, and you can watch this to really get you goin’.” She waggles her eyebrows before she crouches and opens her laptop—she showed me the witch-contraption earlier—and taps on the little square pegs. “There. This should be good.”
My eyes widen as I stare at the moving paintings—the videos—on the little box. A man has his long hog spearing a woman’s anus, his rod stretching her impossibly wide.
Blood rushes to my cock, engorging it. Mindlessly, I reach down, gripping it over my pants. It throbs in my palm, and I squeeze tighter.
