Page 6 of Rubbing One Out

The image of the dream man remained etched on his retinas, and Ben’s hard-on showed no signs of diminishing. Perhaps it was time to take himself in hand and rub one out. It would help him get back to sleep.

He reached down to caress his aching dick and groaned softly as his strokes grew firmer. Now, this was more like it.

“Need a hand with that?”

Ben yelled and sat bolt upright in bed, holding the duvet in front of him like a shield. He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. “What the fuck?” he asked for the second time that night.

Seated in the corner of the room was the being from Ben’s dream. His legs were draped over the arm of the chair, and he looked thoroughly at ease. He waved an elegant hand at Ben.

“Hi-i,” he drawled sexily. “Would you like me to join you and take care of your problem? I figured you enjoy men’s company seeing as how you said you dream about them.” He winked.

“How?” Ben asked dazedly. “You aren’t really here.”

By now, Tess had wakened sleepily and was eyeing the apparition with interest. She didn’t seem bothered to see an uninvited, half-naked man in Ben’s home. Granted, he admitted to himself, she’d seen a few of them from time to time when he’d had a hook-up.

The man stood up, the scent of something soft and spicy wafting from him, tantalising Ben’s nostrils. “I beg to disagree. I am certainly here because you called me.” He sat down next to Ben on the bed. “Let me elucidate. The lamp chose you. You rubbed the lamp. I am the Djinn of the lamp. Ergo, I come when you call.” He smirked. “At other times, it truly depends on how good you are with that thing.” He glanced appreciatively at Ben’s groin.

Ben shook his head. “I have a genie in my bedroom? The sort that grants wishes and shit?” He preferred the modern version of the word because the other one sounded like the popular alcoholic spirit.

The sexy intruder nodded his head. “Give the man a slice of mango. He gets it. My name is Daeliel Jadu Alario, son of Medeaus and Sameria of Quimaria, and I am currently the Keeper Of Cal’dor. Until I can find some way to get out of it permanently, that is.” His face darkened with his last words and his lips twisted into a sneer. “I am honour-bound under the Rules of the Accord to be your guide into the world of wishes.” He grinned wolfishly. “Be careful how you ask for them. I’ve had people beg me to take their wish back, but alas, once it’s granted, there is no return.” The genie bowed. “To whom might I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“My name’s Ben. Ben Sinclair.”

“Nice to meet you, Ben.”

Ben closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the apparition was still there. He decided to humour the man. “So…these wishes. Can I ask for anything? And why did you say the lamp chose me?”

Daeliel cocked his head. “Let me give you the sales spiel, then that’ll be out of the way.” He began ticking things off on his long, lean fingers, and Ben only then noticed his nails were painted a shimmery black. “A Djinn cannot grant eternal life. We cannot heal anyone or anything from sickness or accident. I cannot bring back the dead. We can’t make someone love someone else. We cannot change body parts—I’ve been asked soooo many times to make dicks and boobs bigger, and vaginas tighter, but alas,” he shrugged, “I don’t do that.” His eyes lasciviously slid down Ben’s body. “Not that I think you have any problems in that area.”

Ben preened a little. It was his dream—he was sticking to that concept because, damn it, the alternative was insane—and he could take the accolades if he wanted to.

The genie continued. “I can’t fix anything emotional, that’s up to the human. We don’t meddle in what goes on in your brains because,” he grimaced, “who’d want to be in the mire of what you people call your psyche? It’s simply far too messy.” He stopped. His forehead scrunched. “I think that’s about it. Clearer now? Oh, and the lamp doesn’t appear to anyone. It decides who it goes to.”

Ben was still caught up in the wish thing. “What if I say something without thinking, like, I wish it would rain? Would that be a wish?” He frowned thoughtfully. “I’d hate to waste one.”

Daeliel rolled his eyes. “No, we have safeguards against that kind of thing happening. Back in the days when we were still fairly new at this thing, one of my forebears had to produce a whole menagerie of elephants with wings for some fool, and the shitstorm that rained down from the skies was worse than one of the plagues of Egypt.” He shuddered and so did Ben, imagining huge pats of foul-smelling elephant poop falling from above. “So now a person has to say first, ‘Oh Djinn of the lamp, please grant me my wish’ and then proceed to tell me what they desire.”

Ben nodded sagely. His dream guy was sensible. He approved. “Oh, well, that sounds easy enough. Do I get three wishes then?”

Tess snuffled and lay back down to sleep, crowding Ben as she did, taking up most of the bed.

Daeliel’s beautiful face tensed. “That’s an urban legend caused by your culture of misappropriating the Djinn community and twisting it to your ends. You get two wishes. That’s it. A Djinn may approve a third one, but that’s only done in extreme circumstances.” He sniffed haughtily. “I’ve never found a human being worth granting the third wish yet. I have no doubt you’ll be of the same ilk.”

“Wow, that’s a bit harsh,” Ben stated, leaning forward, waving an arm. The bedcover fell away, revealing more of him. Daeliel didn’t seem to mind, given the narrowing of his eyes and the slide of a pink tongue across his lips. “You don’t even know me.”

Daeliel snorted. “Please. I’ve been around three hundred years in human terms, lived through the Boer War, famines, floods, the rise of the Cold War, and Chernobyl. You humans haven’t yet once disabused me of my convictions. The eternal aim for each one of you is the premise of me, me, me.” His purplish eyes darkened. “You can’t imagine what I’ve seen.”

Ben leaned back against the headboard. “I understand there are some bad people out there. I’m one of those who likes to believe the best in people. Look at Pasteur, Mother Theresa, Christian Barnard, and those who developed vaccines for fatal diseases. What about all those people who lost their lives saving others, as they did in nine-eleven.”

Daeliel didn’t look convinced. One eyebrow raised haughtily.

“Oh, and Elvis Presley,” Ben garbled. “I mean, come on. The man was a legend.”

Daeliel looked at him in pity. “Have you ever gone onto Wikipedia and Googled ‘history of the past three hundred years’? Take a look at the time line. There may be one or two snippets of good news in there, but overall, it looks like a fucking disaster zone for the ages.”

The Djinn stood up and stretched, allowing Ben a glimpse of his taut stomach, a fine line of dark hair leading into his slinky pants. “Forgive me if I seem disillusioned. It’s because I am.” The last words were said bitterly, and the sassy man Ben was starting to like evolved into a darker version.

“Well, I suppose if you’re as old as you say, you have seen some of the worst the world has to offer.” Ben pulled the bed cover farther up his chest, feeling rather vulnerable under the genie’s piercing purple gaze. “So, what happens now? I go back to sleep, and you’ll be gone in the morning?” He snuggled down best he could with the space Tess had left him.

Daeliel flapped a hand. “Whatever. You are a hard man to convince, aren’t you?” He stretched, a lithe, fluid movement that made Ben’s mouth dry up. “Do you have a spare bedroom? I suppose I should make myself at home.” He sniffed. “I hope it’s large enough for all my stuff.”

“Your stuff?” Ben said. “What stuff?” He looked around the room but didn’t see anything lurking.

Daeliel huffed. “You’ll see. Now, where’s my room?”

Ben blinked. He supposed he’d play along with his dream a little longer. “It’s next door to mine. I use it for storage, but there’s a bed in there, and some other stuff. You might have to move it around a bit.” There was a bed in there somewhere, he knew. The room had become something of a dumping ground for spare lab equipment, textbooks, posters, small animal cages, and myriad other crap he’d collected over the years.

The Djinn regarded him uncertainly. “I’m not particularly encouraged by the way you said that.” He rolled his eyes. “Never matter. I’ll have it all sorted soon enough.” He turned, and Ben had a marvellous view of a pert backside and strong thighs. But the item that caught his attention most was the intricate tattoo curling up from beneath Daeliel’s low-slung trousers, across his back and spreading across his shoulders. It was an intricate lacing of thin branches winding around a central tree trunk. The colours of dark blue, grey, and black entwined to form an intriguing expanse of mystery across a smooth, tanned back. Ben thought he spied a large black bird—a raven, perhaps—perched on one of the branches.

“Your tattoo is incredible,” he murmured. “It looks so authentic and beautifully rendered.”

Daeliel turned and regarded him with hooded eyes. “The curse of the Djinn lives on me, and inside me. It is a thing I’d gladly relinquish.”

The genie walked out the door, and in Ben’s last glimpse of that enticing back, he was sure the raven had moved some branches.