Eleven-and-a-half: A Fantasy Of Great Length by Ray Wilder

Chapter 31: Peter

This is a work of fiction. All the characters, events and locations
portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons,
events or locations is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 1996. All rights, implicit or implied, except for
distribution by this archive and personal use by the individual downloading
the file, are reserved. Inquiries regarding publishing rights for this book
should be directed to: raywild@aol.com

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	He wished that something interesting would happen so that he could
get his mind off. . . well, everything his mind was on. Unfortunately, it
would take a major catastrophe like the gym burning down to distract
him. He had a lot to think about and wasn't too sure he wanted to deal with
much of it.
	Any of it, actually.
	The first thing he didn't want to have to deal with was his
unquenchable erection. And all that it represented. Until this afternoon it
had just been a fact of life, a really shitty life, and he would spend as
little time as possible in thinking about why he couldn't get rid of it
like most every other male could. But now, with Patty coming on to him, and
thoughts of Arnold driving him crazy, he had found it necessary to spend
the rest of the day walking around with an extremely long and stretched out
T-shirt hanging down over his crotch.
	He tried to stay uninvolved with the clientele, but it seemed as
though everyone had a question, a favor to ask, a problem with some piece
of gear. And everytime he went out on the floor there were all these huge,
muscular bodies heaving huge, clanking weights, bulging and sweating and
smelling so goddamn wonderful that his mind kept filling with visions of
him and Arnold. Him and Patty. Him and Arnold and Patty and anyone else
that happened to be in sight at the moment.
	His cock continued to leak. It was like an orgasm drawn out to an
incomprehensible length. Slow, plodding, unrelenting, and very
unsatisfactory.
	After a while he could stand it no longer. He excused himself to
the same bathroom Patty had utilized for her fantasy of himself. He thought
that the surroundings and memories of her description of his part in it
might help him. He also knew, even before closing the door, just how
useless this would be. He sat quickly on the closed toilet seat as a wave
of nausea overcame him. This happened everytime he contemplated trying to
make himself cum. Little flashes of his past tried to flicker across his
consciousness, memories, voices, pain, anguish, punishment. He knew, deep
within him, that all these things he carried were unnecessary, harmful. He
would have to face them first, but this he could not bring himself to do.
	And so he could not cum. Because someone he could not, would not,
remember who kept telling him he wasn't supposed to.
	"No."
	"Bad."
	"Wrong."
	"Only when I say you can."
	"I'll beat you to within an inch of your life if I catch you doing
that again,"
	Why?
	He had no idea. Or he had plenty of ideas, but to investigate them
meant delving into a past that was too painful to even begin to remember.
	And so he could not cum.
	He fought down the sickening feeling in his stomach, pulled the
oversize T-shirt up over his head and tossed it in the corner. After taking
a couple of deep breaths he stood, unsteadily, to untie his sweat pants and
take them off. He glanced up and saw his reflection in the mirror which
hung on the wall over the sink. It caught him by surprise. He knew the
mirror was there, he knew he would see himself in it, but, for some
unexplained reason, what he saw astounded him.
	The image that reflected itself back towards him was that of a
young man, late teens, slightly curly brown hair, deep brown, hard-set
eyes, fine chiseled facial features, thick neck, broad chest and shoulders
capped with nice mounds of muscle, heavily muscled and well-defined upper
arms, forearms which were just beginning to display a fine array of veins,
a flat, rigid abdomen and, now, with the T-shirt off, just peeking up over
the waistband of his sweat pants, the fine, deep red head of a healthy
serving of cockmeat.
	It had all been there before. Just this morning he was sure he had
looked in the mirror in his bathroom and seen this very same sight (minus
his cock peeking over the waistband). But, no. Not this very same
sight. For suddenly, and he knew the reason why, he was seeing himself
completely differently.
	Arnold.
	His cock ached.
	His head spun.
	But this time it wasn't ghosts from the past demanding his
compliance to some unremembered rule. This time it was an energy. A
force. He had felt it as he took Arnold around the gym, pumping for him,
answering questions for him, longing for him, dying for him. And Arnold had
been interested in him. Really interested. He had listened to every single
word Peter had said, had processed it, stored it, thought about it. What
Peter had done, had shown him, had told him; it had all been extremely
important to Arnold. No one at anytime in Peter's memory had ever taken him
so seriously, had valued his knowledge, his abilities, his existence so
completely.
	And Patty.
	Peter had no idea where all that stuff with Patty had come from. He
knew she was hot. She was always horny, always dragging some muscle-bound
stud into the office for a quick thrash in the middle of the afternoon. But
she also knew Peter's own sexual preferences. And suddenly she was
fantasizing about him and coming on to him like there weren't a hundred
other guys within quick walking distance who wouldn't love to get their
hands on her incredible body. And there she was trying to get Peter, of all
people, to have sex with her. Go figure.
	He did try to figure. And he ended up with the same answer:
Arnold. It was like he was going around lighting all these little brush
fires of desire and self-realization, letting them smolder and then, later,
when you weren't expecting it, poof. You look in the mirror and you
suddenly seem different. Everything seems different. You're different, the
people around you are different, your past, your present, your future all
take on this unbelievable aura of. . . of. . . differentness.
	And then there was Arnold, himself. Peter had spent an awful lot of
time hanging around the gyms of this town. He had seen an awful lot of
fully, partially and not-at-all clothed men. He knew that, even when he was
still trying to convince himself that he was straight, he had done a lot of
staring, drinking in the sight of huge muscles, gorgeous faces, long,
dangling cocks. In the days since his sexual realignment he had gone out of
his way to experience the vicarious thrill that all those bulges and smells
and sights gave him. But not once, in all the gyms, with all the men in
shower rooms, dressing rooms, on the machines, the beach, in the
restaurants, stores and sidewalks of this town filled with so many people
whose sole aim in life was to make their bodies as amazing and sexually
charged as possible, had he ever felt the way he felt, physically and
emotionally, about
Arnold. Immediately. Spontaneously. Severely. Irrepressibly.
	Arnold.
	Peter's cock began to really ache as he thought about the beauty of
that man who had walked into his life a few hours ago and changed him
forever. And all the guy had done was listen to him.
	There was, of course, the thought of what lay just beneath the soft
cotton fabric of his trousers, the huge bulge pushing subtly, persistently,
powerfully against his zipper. Eleven-and-a-half inches. Peter tried to
imagine just what that looked like, what it felt like. How heavy was that?
How thick? What would it feel like to have eleven-and-a-half inches of
erection hanging off the front of his body. He thought of how his own cock
felt right now, aching for a release he was sure he would not be able to
achieve. Imagine that agony, that pain, with eleven-and-a-half
inches. Shit!
	He pulled his sweat pants down to the floor and stepped out of
them. He then disposed of the now-useless jock strap. His cock was
throbbing. He thought of it being as big as Arnold's. How good it would
hurt being that big. He grabbed the shaft and was amazed to find that he
didn't experience the sudden waves of dizziness and nausea that always
accompanied any contact with his cock. He placed his other hand on the
shaft above the first and tightened his grip slowly until he was exerting
so much effort that his muscles bulged and his cock began to buzz with an
unaccustomed sensation that felt suspiciously like the beginnings of true
sexual arousal, not just pent-up, unreleasable sexual agony.
	Looking in the mirror again, he saw himself anew. This time his
muscles were bulging, veins and arteries displayed across his chest, down
his arms. His pecs swelled out with increased definition, the wonderful
cleft along his sternum, between the muscles, deep and defined. He tensed
his body even more and was surprised to see that he had not already reached
the limits of his muscular display. Bigger and bigger, harder and more
defined. He dared to begin running his hands up and down the length of his
cock. Small voices began to echo in the back of his mind. He tried to shut
them off. They got louder, more insistent. The nausea began, he got
dizzy. He tensed his muscles even harder. His whole body began to shake
with fatigue but the voices diminished.
	The speed of his hands increased. He let off on the pressure of his
cock just a bit so that the long, hard shaft could slip through his fingers
more easily. But he knew he would not be able to keep this up very long
without some sort of lubrication. He flung open the mirror which covered a
small medicine cabinet and there, like the holy grail itself, was a squeeze
bottle of skin lotion. He picked it up. It was even full. He had difficulty
getting the cap open and then realized it was a flip top, not a screw-off
cap. He squeezed the bottle way too hard and ended up with an overflowing
palm of slippery yellow liquid. He wiped most of it off on the inside lip
of the sink and then slathered the rest on the length of his aching cock.
	He swooned. Not from nausea. Not from some deep-seated fear of
disobedience, but from pure, unadulterated sexual ecstasy. He collapsed
back onto the toilet and began to pump his hand lightly but furiously up
and down his cock. Within a matter of just seconds he could feel a
tightness begin to form in his balls and he knew that, after all these
years, all the agony, all the shame, all the hatred and loathing and fear,
he was about to cum. Really cum. Not just drip, dribble, drool, leak. But
cum.
	"No."
	"Bad."
	"Wrong."
	"Only when I say you can."
	"I'll beat you to within an inch of. . ."
	His hand flew off his cock like it had suddenly become
white-hot. His mind burned in retribution as fears of the unknown hell
which awaited him for his transgression flooded his mind.
	He was not going to let this happen. With all his might, all his
will-power, he grabbed his cock again. Searing pain wracked his body. He
knew it wasn't really there. He knew it was only in his mind. This did
little to lessen its impact. The voices started again. This time louder,
more grotesque. He clamped his hands to his ears, trying to stifle the
infernal cacophony, knowing that it all came from within, but not having
any other solution. A hot poker of a migraine stabbed his head just behind
his eyes. The severity of it threw him to the floor where he writhed in
agony. He tried to find some place in his mind where he could run to get
away from the excruciating punishment. Why? How? What had he done to
deserve such treatment? Who was telling him this? Who was doing this to
him? What was so wrong with this most basic of pleasures? He wasn't hurting
anyone. He didn't want to hurt anyone. The only one hurting was
himself. Himself. Hurting himself. They couldn't hurt him so they made him
hurt himself. They. Who? Images of two strange adults came to his mind. He
saw them through eyes much smaller, younger, and more tender than now. Who
were these people? Mom? Dad? These were not the faces of his parents. But
he knew them as Mom and Dad; was certain of it.
	He had no time to figure out the meaning of all this. The fact that
he had imaged a face to match this unbearable torture had done its job,
enough. The sharp pain behind the eyes lessened enough that he could sit up
on the floor, grasp the toilet and lift himself up onto it. His vision was
fuzzy, his extremities numb. His raging hard-on cried out for attention but
he dared not touch it for fear of triggering another attack.
	His mind skirted the issue of the unknown faces; the source, he now
knew, of his problem. The fact was that he knew who these people were. But
the memory of them was too painful to touch. He suddenly felt very small,
very alone. He wanted to cry, to curl up against someone and let a decade
of grief and suffering and internal torture come pouring out. And here he
sat, alone in a bathroom with the clanking of iron and the smell of sweat
and the taste of his own salty tears and the piercing, throbbing pain in
his head and an agonizingly stiff erection that seemed to be completely
unaffected by what the rest of his body was going through.
	Alone. No comfort. No confidence. No love.
	And a voice. Another voice. Deep, resonating, soothing, reassuring,
positive. It echoed from his recent past. He knew who it was. It caressed
his deflated ego, it kissed his hopeless libido, it ran through him,
raising him, making him see himself as he had just moments before in the
mirror. Changed, ready to meet the challenge of a new life, if only he
would shed the old.
	"You should be quite proud to have Peter on your staff, Patty. He
knows more about what's going on around here than people I've talked to at
other gyms who are twice his age."
	Arnold's beautiful face hovered in front of Peter's field of
vision. A small ray of hope, a strong arm to lean on. He heard it and knew
Arnold was talking about him.
	"You should be quite proud. . ."
	Again the words echoed in his mind and he felt the pain and nausea
recede. He gathered his thoughts, shook his head to clear the last remnants
of his vicious attack. He focused on the concept of pride in himself. As
the notion of that became clearer in his mind the pain and agony dissipated
until he could once again deal with his present surroundings.
	He looked around. There was blood on the tiled floor. He checked
himself in the mirror and saw that he had bitten his lip. Blood trickled
out of the corner of his mouth, down his chin and was splattering onto his
left pec. He started to reach for a paper towel to wipe it off but
stopped. There was something about the blood, about the blood right there
on his chest. It looked like a gash, a huge gaping hole as though someone
had plunged a knife into him and pulled it out to allow him to bleed. More
strange images formed in his head but they came so fast and furious he was
not able to sort them out. Someone was going to have a lot of talking to do
when he next met up with the people he had thought, until just a few
moments ago, were his parents. He was now sure they were not.
	He got a towel out of the dispenser and wetted it in the sink. As
he sponged the water onto his pec it ran down over the clotted blood,
turning red, and ran off the front of his pec, the last drops clinging to
the edge of his muscle before dripping into the sink. He squeezed the towel
and more water ran down and off. He had always been turned on by that shelf
of flesh on the huge men he had drooled over in the shower room, the water
running down over their pumped up pecs, small droplets clinging to their
hard nipples, the water running along the belly of the muscle and finally
dripping to the floor after trying so very hard to cling to those
magnificent mounds of strength. And now, here was the water doing the very
same thing to his own pecs.
	More water. He flexed his pecs and wrung the wet towel out at his
neck. He watched in the mirror as the path of each droplet defined the
smooth, broad curvature of his chest.
	"You must be quite proud."
	He was. He was nineteen going on twenty and had a body that many
men who had been at it a lot longer than him envied. He was very good
looking, in a boyish way. And he had a hard, throbbing cock which he knew
men and women alike drooled over when he put on the tight fitting jeans he
sometimes wore or that really skimpy bathing thong he'd gone out and bought
at the beginning of the year.
	He finished mopping up the blood, wiped himself off with a dry
towel, checked the damage to his lip (minimal) and then returned his
attention to his still rigid cock. It had felt so very good when he had run
his lotioned hands along the length of it. He had seen men jerk-off
before. He knew what he was supposed to do. He even had memories of
attempting it in the past himself, although those were fraught with
terrible images which, obviously, haunted him even today.
	His balls were aching a lot more than they normally did, and they
always did, normally. He cupped his hand and cradled the tender organs in
his palm. They felt soft and warm. He watched as the skin of his scrotum
reacted to the temperature of his hand and began to relax and contract in
different places. Slowly he rolled his balls back and forth with his
fingers. He remembered the last time someone had done this to him. The only
person he had ever let touch him there. She had loved him so much, he knew
that now. She had tried so hard to make it right for him, to take away the
pain. Perhaps she had known that he was gay and was only trying to help him
find a way to get around his torturous problem. In the end it had hurt and
saddened them both.
	And when he had finally discovered the truth about his own
sexuality he had felt so betrayed by this woman, so angry that she had
somehow deceived him, that he completely shut her out of his life. If he
had only realized what it was she was trying to do. He knew he should find
her again and let her know how he felt. How grateful he was that she had
tried. How sorry he was that he had not realized what it had meant to her
as well. He knew where she worked, or at least had until they stopped
seeing each other. He'd go find her again.
	But now he had a different objective. He let the feeling of
assurance and pride that had filled him a few moments ago reform and
rebuild until his head was again buzzing with that positive feeling. He
took the bottle of lotion, walked to the toilet, lifted the lid and sat
down. If he had his way there was going to be a lot of cum to get rid
of. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with it; wasn't even sure how
much there would be, but he wanted to be ready, just in case.
	He carefully squeezed a moderate amount of the lubricant into his
right hand and set the bottle down on the floor beside him. He then paused
for a few seconds, took a couple of deep breaths, as though he were about
to go into some heavy reps, formed an image in his mind of what he wanted
to accomplish, just as he had learned to do at the beginning of each day's
workout, and chuckled a bit as visions of holes being blown through the
roof of the building came to mind. He tempered himself with a touch of
reality and concentrated on just being able to achieve orgasm.
	His hand slowly enfolded his aching penis. The lotion was cold for
a moment but the heat of his cock soon warmed it up. He spread it over the
length of the shaft and up to the thick, rubbery head. Every millimeter of
movement produced wild sparks of sensation that flashed throughout his
tense, muscular body. He felt electrified. His head fell back, his mouth
open, his eyes shut, as he enjoyed, unencumbered for the first time in his
present memory, the delicious experience of masturbation.
	He tried to focus on some sexual icon that would guide him to his
long-awaited orgasm. Images of all kinds of physiques and events and
various swollen body parts flashed behind his lightly closed eyelids. So
many to chose from. He needed to focus. Then he thought of Arnold and his
eleven-and-a-half inch cock hanging heavily between his naked thighs, small
drops of juice dripping from it, not with the agonizing frustration of
never being able to cum, but with the sexual power of always being ready
to.
	He imagined taking that huge penis in his hands and holding it,
hefting it, stroking it as it becomes hard and firm. The huge balls that
hang suspended in his huge scrotum call out to be sucked. He lifts the cock
out of the way and sticks his tongue out to touch the wrinkled sac of
skin. The smell is the essence of man scent: Hot, steamy, sweaty, musky,
deep and heady. He opens his mouth and lifts one of the huge eggs with his
tongue, pulling it to him, taking it into his mouth. He hears Arnold groan
as he gently rolls the bloated testicle around inside him.
	He releases it and takes the other one in. Again Arnold moans. He
lets go of the cock and lets it lay across the top of his head. He can feel
the length of the shaft run down to the nape of his neck. So long. He now
fondles the other ball with his hands while sucking and licking the one in
his mouth. He runs his tongue up the back of the scrotum and Arnold grabs
the sides of his head as he becomes desperately aroused. The huge cock
stiffens. He pulls Peter's head away and aims the head of his cock at his
mouth. His lips part, his tongue licks them to make sure they're lubricated
and then takes the head in. Low rumblings are felt through Arnold's body as
well as through the air. More. He wants more. Peter sucks deeply on the
huge cock, taking him deeper and deeper into his mouth. The head of
Arnold's cock presses against the back of Peter's mouth and he opens his
throat to take in even more of the amazing length. Arnold is now breathing
hard, his groans and moans coming in time with Peter's movements. After
several minutes Arnold pulls Peter off his cock and lifts him to his
feet. He looks down at Peter's own raging hard-on and then turns his back
to the boy, offering him his tight, muscular ass. Peter's cock leaps with
desire and he grabs the shaft of it and aims it at Arnold's now exposed
asshole. He presses the fat head of it against the man but hesitates a
second. Arnold can stand it no longer and pushes himself back against the
boy's rigid cock. Instantly Peter's member is deep inside the huge
man. There is no more hesitancy. There is only urgency. Peter grabs the
sides of Arnold's ass and begins to pump his aching cock furiously into the
hot, tight asshole. Within seconds he can feel the cum begin to churn in
his balls. His scrotum swings forward with each thrust and meets the huge
sac that hangs between Arnold's legs. Arnold is furiously working his own
cock, trying to reach his orgasm at the same time Peter does. The two men
begin to grunt and heave in unison and their powerful thrusts drive each
other on to higher and higher states of arousal. Suddenly something clicks
in Peter's head. A switch is thrown and the flood gates open. He feels a
huge rush come shooting up his cock as he rams it harder and harder against
the beautiful mounds of muscle that adorn Arnold's posterior.
	Peter opened his eyes just in time to witness his first orgasm. A
small thought whisked through his mind that he should aim this somewhere.
	Fuck it.
	His cock was considerably larger than he had ever remembered seeing
it. It's dark red color made it look even more impressive. He watched the
slit in the head as his hands furiously worked the shaft. Up the charge
came and suddenly the head of his cock was exploding with thick, white
globs of gooey substance that flew everywhere. He tried to aim somewhere,
but his whole body was out of control. A load of cum landed on his chest,
several flew off to he knew not where. He tried to get his left hand over
the head to keep the stuff from flying off but he couldn't convince it to
stop pumping his cock long enough to do it.
	He wasn't sure how long this was supposed to go on, but it did seem
to be taking a very long time. And still the cum came pouring out of
him. But then, time didn't seem to have much of a meaning at the
moment. And, on top of everything else, he seemed to be shouting at the top
of his lungs. He tried to clamp down on his mouth but only succeeded in
re-injuring the lip he had bit earlier.
	Fuck it.
	Nothing was going to keep him from enjoying this. He continued to
pump his cock and the volleys of cum dwindled to a drool. He kept pumping
his cock, thinking that it would get soft any moment now. He kept pumping
his cock and thought that it still felt awfully good to do it. He kept
pumping his cock and felt his balls begin to ache with that old familiar
pressure. He kept pumping his cock and within a minute and a half of real
time (several delicious eons in perceived temporal displacement) another
only slightly less enthusiastic onslaught of the essence of life came
rocketing up his still aching prick. He was able to control this salvo a
bit more and even had the coordination to get a shot of the stuff straight
into his mouth. He clamped his lips tight and held the squirmy, slithery
wad loosely on his tongue. He slowly played it back and forth against his
gums, savoring the fresh, salty taste. He knew he would like it. He had
always dreamed of having some in his mouth. Now he had to swallow it,
however. He waited until he had completed this second orgasm and then
concentrated on getting it to the back of his throat and then down. He
tilted his head back and the stuff slid along the length of his tongue. It
was just about to fall off the edge and down the hatch when his throat
gagged, clamped shut and tried its best to keep what was happening from
happening. He leaned forward, spread his legs and let his mouthful drip
into the toilet. Great. Some cock sucker he was going to be. Obviously an
acquired taste.
	In the meantime, his hand had slowed and was milking the still
stiff cock, attempting to get every last drop up the shaft. His head was
whirling, his whole body was vibrating madly. His cock still ached
deliciously, but now it was from something that felt like exhaustion, not
frustration. He leaned back against the tank, the cold of the lid pressing
against his back. Looking around the room, he saw that his range had been
much greater than he had, except for the brief fantasy of holes in the
ceiling, thought was possible. He would have to clean it all up. Later. At
this point in time he just wanted to savor his moment of victory. Victory
over the past. Victory over ghosts, both real and imagined. Victory over
inhibitions and lies and pain. He looked again at the cum splattered
surfaces of the room. Trophies in his conquest, like animal heads mounted
on the walls of some safari hunter's library.
	He returned his attention to his cock. Softening. Beginning to hang
loosely over the top of his clasping fist. He let go and it drooped down
until it lay on the rim of the seat between his legs. He felt very
well-hung at the moment. He felt powerful, alive. He also heard the distant
murmurings of the voices in his head and knew he had a long way to go
before they left him entirely alone. But he had cum. And cum again. Twice
as many times as he ever remembered cumming before. He stood up and faced
the mirror. And laughed.
	That's where that one shot went. He'd have to find some way to comb
it out before he went back out on the floor to work, to kid around, to
laugh, to participate in the life out there. Never again would he feel the
degradation inside himself as he faced all those potent, vibrant, powerful
men and women who, unlike himself until today, had known the joy and
completion of sexual release. He had waited so long. He felt he had a lot
of catching up to do.
	And the first thing he wanted to catch up to was the
eleven-and-a-half inch cock that hung deliciously between the legs of one
of the most beautiful human beings he had ever laid his eyes or mind
on. Tomorrow, Arnold would come in to start his first workout at the gym.
	Peter would be ready and waiting for him.