FIGMENT

By Wes Leigh

 

This is a work of wild fantasy intended solely for the entertainment of my readers; any resemblance to any real people or places is purely coincidental. This story involves romance and sex between adult men as well as between men and teens and preteens, some incestual. If you are uncomfortable with any of this, please choose another story. This story is the property of the author and is protected by copyright laws. The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent.

Readers who would like to chat are encouraged to contact me at weston.leigh@protonmail.com.

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Chapter Twelve

 

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Krae, Deser, va eloma salen rey ent dwoe salen menteli ...

Oh, Misery, you haunt my days and inhabit my dreams ...

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I was stunned.

I ran through the house, shouting for Figment and the others, but no one answered me. Of course, they didn't. They were illusions, so how could they respond to my frantic calls.

I stopped at Rick's bedroom and looked inside. It was now cluttered with all the boxes and storage bins I'd kept in there before I'd met Rick and his family. Rick's bedroom furniture was gone, as if we'd never moved all of it over from his apartment. I walked quickly to the closet and opened the door. Boxes were stacked on top of each other, filling the closet; Rick's clothes weren't hanging inside and his shoes no longer lined the shelf.

I shook my head in disbelief. Just that morning, I remembered doing the laundry and hanging shirts inside this closet, RICK'S shirts. I wasn't imagining that. The shirts were real. One was a polo. One was a button-down dress shirt. One was a ratty old tee-shirt Rick refused to throw away, even though I'd offered to buy him new ones. When he'd heard my offer, he had hugged me to his chest, thanked me, and said he didn't need new tee-shirts. Then he had kissed me gently and slipped his hands down on my ass, squeezing both cheeks before pulling me against him. His cock had been half hard, poking me in the hip.

I touched my hip in the exact spot where his cock had pressed against me. Yes, that was the place. Right there. I knew it had happened. Whether Rick was an illusion or not, I remembered all of that occurring just a few hours ago, even the moment when the tee-shirt had fallen off the hanger onto the floor because Rick had distracted me with an especially deep and tasty kiss. And now there were boxes along the wall where the tee-shirt had fallen. No tee-shirt. None of Rick's things.

I looked out the window at the driveway. Naturally, Rick's black SUV was no longer parked there.

I swallowed nervously and walked out into the hall, headed for Trace's bedroom.

Trace's new metallic bedroom set—the one he had picked out at Furniture Row, the one Rick said I shouldn't buy because I was spoiling the boy, the one Trace was so proud of because he felt like an adult with his own place with his own furniture at last—was gone. In its place was the queen-sized bed I'd set up in the bedroom a year ago. It was simple and comfortable furniture, perfect for any guests I might have stay the night. The pictures on the wall were the cityscapes I'd had hanging there before, instead of the majestic mountains and forests Trace had chosen as decorations.

I stood in the middle of the room and turned in a slow circle, shocked by what I was seeing. I was absolutely certain we had moved all this furniture out to storage to make room for Trace's new bedroom set. I remembered helping Trace pick spots on the walls for his new pictures and patching a hole we'd accidentally made before strategically placing a picture of Alaskan glaciers over the repair. I walked to the wall and searched, finding nothing. I pulled down several pictures and looked behind them. Still nothing. It was as if my memory of that day was a complete lie ... or an illusion.

Agitated now, I hurried into the next bedroom. Drew's new bed and beanbag chairs were gone. In their place were bookshelves filled with my financial reference books. This room had been my library before Drew moved in. I touched a book, running my finger down the spine, reading the title: A Stroll Down Wall Street: Avoiding Investing Potholes, by Alfred M. Noble. Baffled, I turned and walked out of the room. I had a sizeable storage area in my attic. That was the last place I'd seen this book, stashed away with other volumes in a box. That was where Rick and his boys had helped me lug boxes full of my books to store out of the way, clearing out the room to accommodate Drew's new furniture.

I walked quickly out into the hallway and turned, heading up the narrow stairs leading to the attic. When I opened the attic door, the air was heavy and stale. A light layer of dust was on the floor. There were no boxes, no storage containers, no footprints, no sign that anyone had been up here in months. I turned and walked slowly down the stairs, along the hallway, and into my bedroom.

No. Not MY bedroom. OUR bedroom. The bedroom Figment and I shared. The bedroom he insisted was his too, where the two of us slept every night, though sometimes the rest of the family joined us.

I walked slowly into OUR room and looked around.

Figment's shoes were always neatly stacked along the wall at the back of the closet. If I opened the closet door and looked inside, is that what I would see? My hand shook with nervous energy as I reached for the closet door handle and turned the knob. I pulled the door open and flipped on the light. The back wall of the closet had several pairs of shoes. My shoes. Adult shoes.

Figment's bright red Van's sneakers were missing. So were the fuzzy monster slippers he wore in the mornings because they made his feet look ridiculously enormous.

My heart started pounding. I searched the entire closet, finding only my own clothing. All of Figment's shirts and pants were gone.

I stumbled out of the closet and backed into the wall next to the dresser. I yanked open the top drawer, knowing what I would find. Figment's underwear and socks were missing.

I lurched to the bed and sprawled out, struggling to catch my breath. Turning my head, I touched the pillow where his head had rested the night before. It seemed to be indented, pressed in where his precious cheek had rested. I pulled it to my nose and sniffed deeply, but even his sweet scent was missing.

Was it all my imagination? Was I losing my mind?

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I must have fallen asleep. I know my sleep was restless, filled with moments of longing and panic. At least one dream was of Figment, calling to me, begging me to come to him. I tried, but my legs were paralyzed, unable to follow the sound of his voice. I cried out, but the words were trapped in my throat. I couldn't tell him that I was unable to get to him, and he eventually gave up and left me alone again. When I woke up, the blankets were so tangled around my feet I had to tug them off and my body was dripping with sweat, soaking the sheets.

I tore the bedding away, tossed it in the floor, and stripped off my clothes, kicking everything toward the hamper. Then I staggered wearily into the bathroom and climbed into the shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand. I closed my eyes and backed into the pulsating stream, allowing it to pound my neck and upper body.

With my eyes closed, I could almost sense Trace creeping into the shower with me, surprising me by sliding under the water behind me, wrapping me in his long, strong arms and holding us both beneath the cascading flow. If I tried, I could feel him, right there, just behind me, his skin hot against mine. His arms held me, keeping me from escaping from the very thing I desired the most. He was a wild and voracious lover, waiting only long enough to lube my hole with conditioner before penetrating me, sliding quickly inside, pulling me back against his hips and thrusting deeper than ever before. Our bodies found a frenzied rhythm, slamming back, thrusting in, crashing together with the fury of a Summer thunderstorm, leaving us both trembling and out of breath when we finally began shaking with our orgasms, my seed spewing all over the shower wall, his spreading deep within me. He kissed my neck, gently at first, then gradually increasing in fervor as he began thrusting again, faster and deeper, pushing my body to new heights of ecstasy.

I looked down at my cock, red and throbbing, asking myself if any of it was real. Was that all I was to Trace, a quick fuck in the shower, a quick blowjob in the mall restroom? Was my legacy from his lovemaking nothing more than an afternoon of stiff muscles and a sore asshole?

I turned off the shower and climbed out to dry off.

No, the answer was, `Definitely not.' There was far more to Trace than the raw, sexual hunger. Whenever we were together, his passion ignited a firestorm response within me. When he held me against the wall, pressing his ravenous mouth over mine, his craving demanded that I rise to the occasion. When he never stopped after the first orgasm, my body always responded to his, matching him in a second and third shuddering climax. I'd be the first to admit that sex with Trace was amazing, fulfilling beyond anything I'd ever experienced before. But why? Why was it so wonderful? Now that he was gone, I could see it plainly. It was the way he challenged me, every time, to meet his unquenchable thirst with equally insatiable desire.

I dropped the towel on the floor and walked naked into my bedroom, sitting on the edge of the unmade bed. I picked up my phone and called Trace's swimming coach.

"Hello," I said, when the coach answered, "this is Caleb Malcolm. I suppose you heard the news that Trace is not going to be swimming with you anymore?"

"Trace?" he replied.

"Yes. Trace Altroterra."

There was silence, then, "I don't have anyone by that name on the team."

Confused, I managed to stutter out, "He ... he was one of your fastest freestyle swimmers, and the butterfly ... he was excellent in both events."

"Noooo, I don't have any swimmers by that name. Maybe he's on the city team?"

"No, that's ... goodbye." I disconnected the call and stared at the wall.

How could I have such sharp memories of someone who had never existed?

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I sat alone, eating in silence at the same table where Drew tricked his family with rubber hamburger patties. I missed Drew's playfulness, his jokes, his delightful laughter.

If we were in the Feywild, I knew what Drew and I would be doing. He would show me his favorite places to walk in the forests, chattering away and telling me silly stories, then turning his peculiar blue and green eyes in my direction and—quicker than I could anticipate—he would disrobe and run naked through the shadows and dive gracefully into crystal waters and splash playfully beneath spattering waterfalls. I would chase him, tossing my own clothes aside and leaping into the water to swim up beside him, laughing as I accused him of being a naughty rascal. His hands would be immediately upon my cock, urging me to hardness so he could dive beneath the water and suck me into his mouth. He would hold his breath, bobbing up and down, urging me to cum as quickly as possible, nipping at the tip, swallowing my cum and then bursting up out of the water to share a tangy kiss.

He would laugh and push me below the waters to suck him in turn. His body would shiver in delight when I stroked his smooth, hairless belly. He would arch his back when my fingers combed through the curling tuft of hair above his throbbing, eager shaft. His excited cock would dance with his heartbeat. His hairless balls would pull up into his body when I stroked the smooth skin of his sack and toyed with the round orbs within. He would giggle as he offered his body to me, unashamed, and filled my mouth with the sweet nectar of his youth.

I knew that's what it would be like, because sex with Drew was never something nasty or vulgar. It was always spirited, always playful, always an exploration of an exciting new world.

Drew was as delightful as a Spring morning, full of promise, and now my Springtime was gone, and I realized what I had lost.

I finished my sandwich and chips and carried the plate to the sink. I took out a wineglass, poured it full and carried it into the den. I curled up on the sofa and sipped the wine, glancing at the piano in the corner, where Figment had played music for us every night. This was where Rick and I had spent so many quiet moments, cuddling each other, talking about our day, relaxing in companionship.

Rick had been my perfect friend. Listening whenever I rambled, responding with a gentle smile, with sparkling eyes, with a warm shoulder to lean against and soft lips upon my cheek. Like a warm Autumn afternoon, I always felt content in his arms, willing to stay there an eternity, refusing to move until his mouth found mine and his delicious tongue stirred me to ask for more. He never refused me, offering his body to me as often as I gave myself to him. He was a generous lover, inviting, welcoming, receiving me. Our loving was slow and languorous, building up gradually for both of us until a slight tremble was the only sign we were both finished. And with our sticky bodies pressed together, we would kiss again, sometimes drifting to sleep in each other's arms.

I sipped the wine and thought of Rick. Of course, he couldn't have been real. What man could be so perfect for me? What father would welcome me so quickly into his family and openly encourage his sons to make love to me? He wasn't real. I knew that now. And yet I still felt him next to me on this very sofa, rubbing my thigh gently as we sipped our wine and listened to Figment's soft serenade.

... Figment.

Figment would look at us as we cuddled on the couch, and he would struggle to hide a mysterious smile as if he knew a secret I hadn't yet guessed. What secret might that be? That Figment had created an illusion of his family, based on his real father and brothers? What were they like when they were home in the Feywild? Was his father a wise and noble king, as gentle in reality as he was in illusion? Would the king appreciate the humor in Figment's mirages? Would Figment's oldest brother be as wild with his lovemaking? Would the younger brother be as capricious and horny?

I placed the glass on the table, still half full.

I wasn't in the mood for wine. Or for anything at all, to be honest.

I picked up my cellphone where I'd dropped it on the table. I opened the phone contacts and scrolled down to Sheri Parks. When I tapped her name, her phone number and address came up. With one touch of my finger, I could start the call. I could listen as it rang. I could say hello and ask her how she was doing and make small talk for a minute, then mention Rick and his family and ask her if she remembered them.

What would she say?

Would she have no idea who they were and wonder why I had suddenly stopped coming to our D&D nights at Mountain High Games? Would she confirm my suspicions that I had made up the whole thing in my head?

Or, worse than that, would she ask how Rick and the boys were doing? Would I then have the courage to tell her they were gone, listening as she told me how sad she was for me? Would I have to explain how they had disappeared before my eyes, admitting to Sheri what I now suspected? That I was losing my mind?

I shut off the cell phone, chickening out on calling the one person who could prove that I was actually falling apart. The thought of that scared me so bad I felt my balls drawing up into my body. Was I having a nervous breakdown? That was a question I really didn't want answered.

I stood up and stumbled to my bedroom. I stared for a moment at the tangled sheets in the corner. I should replace them, but I didn't have the energy. Why bother? Instead, I wrapped a light blanket around my shivering, naked body and sat on the edge of my bed, thinking about the four of them.

If I could bring them back, would I?

Of course, I would, because it was about more than what they did for me and what I did in return for them. It was about love. I loved them, each of them, all of them, and they loved me.

I fell sideways onto the bed, clutched the blanket tighter around me, and fell into a restless sleep.

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It was no surprise that I dreamed of him.

I expected him to come to me again. Perhaps rushing away from the supper table after asking his father the king to be excused. Hurrying to his room to cast the spells that would return him to my world, to ease my feverish brain, to comfort me, to reassure me that I wasn't mad or delusional, to hold me again and tell me that I could still come to the Feywild to be with him, if only I wanted to.

And I did want to, with all my heart.

In the dream, I hear him calling me.

This time, I cry out and he hears me. I sit up in bed and look around, but I don't see him.

He calls again, from somewhere outside. In the back.

I throw off the blanket and run through the house, headed for the family room. I open the sliding glass door and walk out onto the patio. Instead of a cold winter's day in Colorado, it is a warm night with a bright silver moon shining in the sky above.

I walk slowly forward, my bare feet pressing down on springy turf. I'm now standing in a forest clearing, surrounded by wild growth, twisting vines, and flowering shrubs.

It is the Feywild. It must be.

And waiting in the clearing is Figment, naked like me. He smiles shyly when he sees me. He approaches and bashfully takes my hands and stares longingly up at me. His eyes are dark in the moonlight, sparkling, twinkling with promise.

The rising moon paints our bodies in silver radiance and blue shadows. Figment pushes me down to lie on my back in the soft grass. He sits astride my waist, reaching behind him to align my hard cock with his hole. He sits back slowly, impaling himself upon me, groaning with pleasure as I slide inch by inch into his body. When I am fully sheathed within him, I slowly rock my hips, sliding carefully in and out. His throbbing dick pulses with each thrust of my cock, with each beat of his heart. I caress the small pink tip between my thumb and finger; his body spasms and his bowels clinch. I slide down the front of his thin shaft to his grape-sized testicles, lifting each one and gently fondling them. His stomach quivers in anticipation. I grasp his thighs and caress his legs, down to his knobby knees, sliding my thumbs along his velvet soft thighs. He bites his lip and sits down hard. I push up and hold myself, fully encased by his body, waiting as the tingling spasms seize his body, and when they pass, we begin again.

A cool evening breeze drifts around us as we gently love each other until the early morning hours.

The dawning sun greets us. Figment and I arise from our lovemaking and stride, naked and unashamed, to break our fast together with his family. They receive us ... the gentle King, his fiery eldest son, and his frisky middle son. We are loved, and I adore Figment, the youngest of the fey elf princes, wise beyond his years, my everlasting love.

We share laughter and love and food and wine the first of many times.

This is my home now. The Feywild is my abiding. I think not of that other land, a place of illusion that is no longer real to me. It is insubstantial; the Feywild is ever-present.

Was it my fertile imagination that created that other land? Or is the Feywild the illusion, and have I escaped into the fantasy where now I reside?

Each time I dreamed I was a Dungeon Master overseeing a fantasy game, was I longing for this land where I belonged? Who was the real illusionist? Figment, or myself?

It does not matter, for now I am fey. Eternally.

 

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Ent sen resu delati len deshu ...

And they lived happily ever after ...

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The end of FIGMENT, a fantastical tale and nothing more.