“Pete? What’s up man?”
From the movements of his mouth, it seemed clear Pete was trying to speak, but no sound came out, and his mouth closed again in a moment. Douglas just watched, rooted in place, as his housemate dropped to his knees in front of him, reached out, and tried to yank down the front of Douglas’ pajamas.
He stepped backwards and yanked them back up, “Whoa now, what the fuck’s up with you?” he said, not noticing that the smoke around them both had grown thicker, some of it beginning to pull together off to his side. There, like the night before, was the form of a lower jaw, nose and neck, formed from smoke–but also two large, burly hands. The placement of all three in the air implied the existence of an invisible body lying somewhere between them, but nothing else materialized. Pete, on the ground, shuffled forward on his hands and knees, focused only on Douglas’s crotch and ignoring his housemate’s shouts, backing him up against the side of the house. Douglas looked around, trying to figure out where to go to get away from his suddenly creepy housemate, when both smoky hands clamped down on his wrists, hauled his arms into the air and pinned them above his head and too the wall. “What the fuck?” he said, trying to pull away, but he saw the face hovering in front of him, the same face as the night before, and his guts chilled. Pete, however, took advantage of the opening, pulled down Douglas’s pants and started sucking on his cock.
He tried to protest, but the smoky face only turned up into a sneer. The hands above readjusted their position, so only one hand held both of Douglas’s arms up, the free hand moving down and sliding his shirt up, tweaking one nipple while the mouth moved down and started sucking at the other. He tried to push Pete off with one of his feet, but before he could, he felt a sudden surge of pleasure as something spewed out of his cock. He looked down, expecting to see Pete’s mouth flooded with cum, but instead all he saw was smoke pouring from his nose and mouth, the cloudiness of his eyes now nearly opaque. He wanted to stop, but he could already feel another massive load swelling in him, his balls nearly pulsing, as another load of smoke flooded into Pete’s mouth and lungs. He hadn’t noticed that his cigarette had burnt down to the filter and finally gone out, and he could sense some frustration in the smoky mouth as it began to lose it’s shape and dissolve into the air. The hand was no longer holding him in place, allowing him to shove Pete off his cock, but Pete didn’t seem to be home. The color of his eyes hadn’t returned, and as Douglas watched, what smoke remained slid back into his cock, or down Pete’s gullet.
He didn’t want to be there when Pete did come back around–if he came back around. He didn’t want to try and understand what had just happened to him, why he had just sucked his housemate’s cock. He went back inside, thankful the other two men living there hadn’t seen them, and went back up to his room, crumpling and ripping up his remaining cigarettes as he went, and dumping them all in the toilet before flushing them away. He found his phone and pulled up Scruff, looking for Bandgar’s profile page. All of this insanity had started with him, with that strange sex they’d had the night before–maybe he was still in town, and if he was, he might know what in the world was going on with him. However, he didn’t appear to be online, and so he sat on his bed, desperate, feeling the itch start up all over again, but refusing to give in to it anymore.
It wasn’t long before the usual withdrawal symptoms started–the headache, the nausea, the anger and anxiety, however, within an hour they were all more intense than he’d ever experienced them before, and came coupled with something even worse–it felt like his balls were somehow…drying up. Even that description, which was the best he could use to describe the itching, burning, and crushing sensation inside his sack, didn’t seem to adequately describe what was wrong with him. Further, something inside him was…frustrated. He thought it was just the nausea being somehow worse than usual, as he threw up his morning coffee into the trash can, but something in his lungs, in his head, in his heart was…angry. Angry that it had no smoke, angry at him, a burning, vicious, instinctual anger. This helped, in other ways. It gave him something to focus on, something to hate back, something to resist and fight, and for a while, he was convinced that he was winning. The thing in him–it was small. It had a grip on him, but even it could sense that if he kept up his resistance long enough it wouldn’t be able to hold on.
But that turned out to be a rather false hope, because the thing, whatever it was, already had a contingency in place. The door to Douglas’s room swung open after a few hours, and there was Pete holding a shopping bag in one hand, his mouth slack, his eyes still grey–though the occasional flicker of their original green peeked through every once in awhile. He shut the door behind him, pulled a cigar from the bag, clipped it and lit it, and walked over to where Douglas was whimpering on the bed, knowing he’d greatly underestimated the forces at work inside of him.
Bracken's Corner 