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.
If you enjoy this
story, please support the Nifty archives today with a thoughtful donation by
visiting https://donate.nifty.org/.
Chapter
Twelve
͠ ͠
͠ ͠ ͠ ͠ ͠
͠ ͠
Krae, Deser, va eloma salen rey
ent dwoe salen menteli ...
Oh, Misery, you haunt my days and inhabit my dreams ...
͠ ͠
͠ ͠ ͠ ͠ ͠
͠ ͠
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?
͠ ͠
͠
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?
͠ ͠
͠
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.
͠ ͠
͠
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.
͠ ͠
͠ ͠ ͠ ͠ ͠
͠ ͠
Ent sen resu delati len deshu
...
And they lived happily ever after ...
͠ ͠
͠ ͠ ͠ ͠ ͠
͠ ͠
The end of
FIGMENT, a fantastical tale and nothing more.