Dream a Little Dream

By Timothy Stillman

Published on Aug 9, 2001

Gay

Controls

"Dream a Little Dream"

by

Timothy Stillman

If you are happy and full of love and antics and friends by the bushel load, then good for you. Go on your sleek satisfied way and happy trails. But if you are tired of being shredded by friends, or if the day is too much with you, if you have found there are far too many humans who are as cold and mean and bigoted as snakes, when everybody pretends they are not that way, that you are to blame, if loneliness and melancholy eat away at your soul, if you want to crack some heads but never can, then this story is for you. I hope.

So, if you're naked as I am now or if you want to be naked at any point during this reading, if anyone is reading this, let me take your hand and walk you through winter carnival university. Let me be the one for you and let you be the one who will allow me to love you. We can be anyone, any age. For me though, this time out: You be a university student. I'll be your young high school friend come to visit you in your dorm. Time is not short now. It lengthens and broadens each night crystal moment. Safe you are with me. No games. No wondering what is going on in the secret heart of either of us.

This is not a story about love. This is a story about sex, about lust. About coveting all the boys you see and coming home to the dorm this week I spend with you to tell me about them. As I bring my arms round your warm shoulders and I whisper your name and the stars are high in the night sky. We build erections to each other. We have done everything there is to do, and then we discover things more to do. We are not drunk or stoned or high on any chemicals. My world is you. My castle. Pink and soft. Pink and hard. Hard and randy. Together on our pushed together side by side dorm beds.

Kisses cool too often today. Or they don't come at all. In rushing fastness. Stand in front of me as I play with myself now, here at the computer, and there in our dorm room in a tame land, in a brave and real land most realists would be too afraid to try to find. We kneel in front of each other on my bed. We fall forever into each other's arms. We are light as feathers and svelte and our hands flow like rivers over our bodies, our own and each other's. I take a moment to hold my arms around my bare chest, my hands to my back, pretending they are your hands.

And in all of this, there is a fancy of stripping, of making love in the college chapel dark one in the morning, of showering together and kissing touching tingling nipples and dicks hard and young and so very pretty. Love stroke as I stroke myself now. I am determined to come as I write this. It's become a point of honor for me. And head to crotch and head to dick and head to balls biting tickling and giggling among. My own secret forest glade. My own incumbent recumbent boy who is with me now. Heart in hand. Broken hearts. For both of us. Too many hurts. Too many lies and rebuffs and hypocrisy in it from other's hypocritical cardboard morality they would never dream of using on themselves.

Bicycle in the corner of our room, my kneeling before you, beside the bike, with your long dick in my mouth. The veins of it pulsing against me. The dick jumping and tickling, that marvelous sensation down at the root of you, with your hands on my head, as I slurp you up. A tongue that is mine that will not hurt you as you've been hurt before so often that almost on numerous occasions you to want to give up the ghost. But my hands are on your naked ass now, and I give you surcease as you stand before me, legs trembling, as I look up at you, and you look down, your eyes on fire. Shadows leaving them.

Bright and true and on course. Here, sir, let me make it better. Here, sir, your dreams are on their way. I'm taking a risk doing this. Writing this, naked, stroking my dick every so often, cupping my balls. My computer and I are in a room that has windows on two sides. The windows have drapes that block out nothing. Inside or out. This is the first morning of school as I write. School busses are picking up kids on my street right this minute. As I sit here stroking. And moan a bit. And feel you naked before me. Feel the night stop being the night of the soul for a time. Let the August sunshine in. To guide. Not to be an oppressive prison keeper.

Your hands are on the top of my head, pushing me on your spear, hooking me to you. You have such a nice crop of pubic hair. Dark and just thick enough that I can tangle my fingers through it. We don't talk in this story. We talk with our bodies, with our trust. Trust. Remember it? Long time ago maybe, when you had some, when you believed that you could trust others. But, if like me, you've found the world kills trust over and again. That after a while, you don't trust another living soul. You'd be stupid to. Some people can never do so. Must always be wary. Tennessee Williams calls it our only defense against betrayal. And we've both found out this world has most certainly enough of that to go round.

Trust me. Trust that I want to suck you out, not your heart, not your soul, but you, your warm strong body standing next to me as I kneel on that cold dorm floor in front of you. As I partake of you and your sacred secrets and your sacred sweetmeats. You are home and I am a wanderer tired of running, tired of doors closed in my face. Let me find home in you. Let me find sexual peace in you. These are prayers. Emotions are tough for most people. Tell some to many of them, they can't run away fast enough. But you are not like that. Neither am I. We are not in love and we are not anonymous, but we've been through enough to know that a morning or a night or whatever time you might be reading this, if anyone is, I repeat again, for I fear humiliation too, am trying to lessen the hurt, then to be together like this is fine. A stop along the way filled with golden smiles from you to me. As I push your stalk in me and I push it so deep that I can feel it at the back of my throat. The strong oak of you. The giving tree of you. Dances in my mouth. On my tongue. Do I hear a waltz? Do I feel one. Be in me all of me and never leave my mouth or my heart. I implore you.

You are warm. Let's make this dorm room in late November, how about? Let's make the weather plucking cold and dense deep night with layers of layers of stars in the night canvass. The world is no longer Barnum and Bailey, the world is no longer a cheat and a run away. The world is you. And you push into my mouth so deeply. How can my mouth exist without your learned lolly in it? And my hands grip the globes of your warm perfect ass so hard red marks are to be left there of those hands. Shadows of red blood caressed to never let go. To follow wherever you are and keep you safe and protected to last your whole life through.

Your legs are downy and they are strong as might can be when you know that my tongue is on you, lashing you with little tongue demerits, and you put your hands on my shoulders. You rock me you ride me like I'm your hobby horse. I'm playing now with my dick as I write this. I'm shifting back and forth. The computer chair has a soft black covering for back and seat. It feels good on my butt. I rub my hands down my chest. I feel my ribs and I am feeling your ribs. I push my penis out for you. Do you feel it? I luxuriate in the goodness of being naked with a boy a few years older than me, like you. Teach me everything. I have much on a November night of the mind, to learn. I find it a memory and a gondola in Venice a long time ago with Tadzio, left standing, forgotten, alone, waiting on the side of one of the banks watching us cast watery good bye to him shadows in sun deep afternoon, staring out after us and he calling remember me, remember me.

Sometimes you and I will ride our bikes, naked. Sometimes in the middle of the day in thought at least, but mostly at night, late, and feeling the machines that carry us and our machines on the bicycle seats. The wind at our backs, the game of trying to not get hard by doing such a thing, and of course impossible. Human mathematical miracles on our boy devices that take us where we wish to go. Exactly so. You and I naked on bikes together. Your flanks rising up and down as you pedal. Your arms strong and lambent lit from within as you hold to handle bars. The curve of your beautiful spine. The little bumps of it. The little freckles at the top of your cleft. Your fair skin. The way your legs are curves, the way they know just where to go, and the muscles of them dance. Your dick and balls packages of entrancement on the bike v seat. Riding comfortably and protected. Sleek and long of hair blonde I fancy but you can fancy it any way your want.

Your mouth, in this kaleidoscope of images that burst on me, for I must have a kaleidoscope of images when I jack off, I can never go with one story line or one dream or memory, I have to blend them all together and cut them apart like photographs in the mind, confetti raining down on me as I throw caution to the wind. To surprise myself once more. As I ride with you. As I see the dark country side on the gravel side road on which we take these midnight moon lake jaunts. Trees and autumn and breezes and night sky blowing by. And we remember them in this three and more tier cake I'm at least attempting to concoct for you. As I suck you in the dorm, we think of these things. As I feel the white come of you deep within your belly. As I stroke your magical v. As I put my mouth so deep on your cock, not easily done with a mouth small as mine--so please, sir, teach me how--and I press my lips against your pubic hair.

I love the smell of you. I love that you smell of talc and warm water from the shower we've just taken. I love to watch you in the shower room. I love to watch you take off your clothes slowly and stand in front of the shower and in front of me. The water warm rain cascading down as you lean over and test it. On purpose of course, you knowing what is to come. As I press my clothed body against the back of you. And you feel my not inconsiderable hard on in my jeans. As you stand again and you turn your face to mine and you kiss me. Your eyes closed. Your face soft and delicate as a fairy tale etching come real. Then turning full round and your holding me and your penis up and hard standing against my shirted belly. Your hands inside my jeans and caressing my cock as I caress it now and pretend that my left hand is yours. As you slowly strip me in the room of water and steam and heat and treat me like a new flower and you the nutrients that give me rise.

Don't be afraid, please. If you are like me, you've been afraid your whole life. You've always kept an eye on the exit door every time there might be even a hint of an entrance of someone else. And if you are like me, you've a right to feel that way, to always be ready to leave. But, again if we are alike, you forget to do that. Always. And no matter how dark and empty the stage gets, late and later on into the night, keening, till it bleeds for you, you still stand there waiting for carnival university to return. And now it has. I am here. I've taken you every way I can, lifting the sky from the sky, dispelling the moment out of the moment. As we ride our bikes or stand in front of the shower and you feel me up, as I give you head in the dorm room, as I am reaching my mouth out and kissing air between me and the computer, you, you sex toy, are doing the same to me. I fancy myself Zac Hanson at the moment. Of the singing group. I long to press my willowy body, my long hair dusting my shoulders, and I, dressed only in bright colored bikini briefs, to yours, to bend to you, to hold my arms around your shoulders, your neck. To reach out and find you reaching back in such a landscape of us being passionate to each other. Our faces serious. Our eyes filled with reflections of the other. My parabola of a body. A trapezoid swinging from your tree branches I love so much. It's what it's all about. Everything. A bid to say here I am, look at me, make me count for a moment or two. Everything is predicated on that.

How I love to see you as boy and young man. Naked from the bronze of the sun. Your sweet smile and body that is lingering, lonely too long, and full of sex at every moment. You kneeling before me, in profile. Your penis hidden between your legs. Your ass seen as all of you seen only from the side. Your body straining gentle like Pegasus trying to get free of its harnesses. Your hands on your knees of your long legs. Your torso straight and tall and firm. Your flanks like a painting of Blueboy new boy new life new world extending down in the autumn fair and brown glint of your skin. Turned just so I can only see the intrigue of one hip, and not around it, not seeing the meatiness the soft sweet kissable ass of yours. But the tease of you, and the belly of you, firm, the belly of you that has the sweetest innie navel in the whole world. As your abdomen depends downwards and the magic goodies of you hidden by your left leg. Your face turned away from me. You looking over your shoulder. Pensive. A boy alone in his room, dorm, or home, or secret place that no one knows about. Me. And you. Ages mixed up, Times of life thus forgotten.

Your eyes of dark bespeaking of autumn. Heat me now as I write and misspell so many words as usual, but this time because I am so turned on. The kids in their school busses have left now from outside my windows. The cars of neighbors have driven off. No one has seen me. But it doesn't matter anymore, cerulean skies are for those who see mistily around corners that no one else save us know are there. What else is life then than running up ahead. I am the boy who broke your heart when you were ten. I am the boy who seduced you when you were 15. I am the shadow that walked down a hallway and then stopped and walked no further from whom you ran and ran to this very day. To me. Finding Samara not a bad place to be. Not frightening or intoning. But warm hands that want to help.

Be my man-boy naked save for torn apart cutaway jeans and lie on my bed with me on your stomach. Let me see your giggly smile and your happy eyes and the look of sex in them directed at me, and for this one moment, only me. Let me see those jeans cut for shorts torn and exposing both globes of your ass, and your head cradled on your hands on the bed or let's make it a couch instead, as you look at me. Your smile this side of dreams that says wake up and find you lying there in front of me. Let me put my hands on your shoulders the cream of summer sun in them. Let me run my trembly fingers down your spine. And let me get on top of you and drill my penis into you, seeking oil, seeking respite.

As I pull out momentarily, and we eel you out of your shorts, without a word, your sweet warm naked skin floundering before me, knowing what is to come next, as I've gotten completely off you, for you to pull your sexual body that is composed of a league of the tides of all the seas that ever were, in the warm brown puckering, skin to skin adhering body, into a kneeling position, and your ass sticking right out at me, your hole open, your ass full cheeks and your arms on the side arm of the couch, your head up, your unseen smile waiting. As I come to you, struggle inside you, begin to live again. And then afterwards to shower down. Or a shower after I finish giving you head in the dorm.

As I soap you, lather you down. And your penis still a little hard, the soapy rivulets and water rushing down your belly toward home, and you like Zac when little, like me when little, like you when little, with your new hard on that you so love and want to show to everybody, one leg before the other, posing, guileless, on that brink from boy to what is beyond, knowing how to lure so sweetly and candidly, your face turned to mine and your mouth open in something that is a rare commodity these days. Saying I am here. Without saying it at all, no need to. Words spoken aloud have a habit of coming back and biting you. Too dangerous. That sweet innocent cheery face. The heavy penis and balls and pubic hair saying something so totally different in comparison with your kid baseball player summer sun face. The delight of that. Zac, you say with your eyes, bite me.

Adore me, and you knowing without question my answer is yes. As the soap and water rushing down your chest and belly define you. As it hides and pockets in puddles at your crotch and at the top of your penis, running then in little stream off it as though you are peeing which turns me on so enormously. As you want your picture taken, your soul given back, all the acid queens who broke your little heart to finally get theirs first and now and forever more, and we are in the spring rain walking. Your body walking beside mine. Your penis thick and your flanks slim. Your chest heaving against the day like the prow of a most wondrous ship against the ocean of the day, the ordinary, the mundane, this reality everybody is so goddam obsessed with, thinking they know all about it.

Break reality. Aside from making you, what good is it? What good has it ever done us? If words could leave a screen or a page and could be blankets of fire thrown into your and your hands and heads and hearts and souls, if words could take leap and bound and not be full of crockery along the way, broken, or filled with cruel trickery, then I would do so for you. I would give you autumn in your heart and I would give you head all the live long night. I would suck you in class to everyone's amazement. I would lay you on the quad at high noon under the tallest elm. I would in this spring rain strip you of your clothes and I would cup the rain over your head and pour it from the sky to my hand to you, onto the top of your head, and down you as your body waves and turns into a comma pose, as your dick, cut or uncut, swings long between your legs. Boys so young in the showers of spring. Brings back memories. Muscles and thin legs and laughter that doesn't know--yet. Hands that touch and tug and pull at their bodies. Bodies randy and with much rain heated. Hips cantilevered a bit to one side in the eternal spider web spring day sex dance. Needing. Always needing. A hand to the face side. That hand's arm a perfect bridge across a nipple, a chest that descends like a sheer cliff after the ribs are left behind.

A package that is golden insert. That is sex left standing. As we ride our bikes into a new day, a new world. And I am close now. I will not come as I write this, I'm afraid. But I will as soon as I finish the writing. How I loved to come with Ricky. And even have phone sex with Daniel and Brett. I even loved Grant and Josh to tease me, though there was such pain for me in that I can't begin to tell you.

And dreamed sex forever always with Joel. I have given you the best I know how to give. I caress my dick which is standing straight out. I want you to have it. I want you to put it in your mouth as you are on your knees, sucking me. I want to feel that warm rush in me. That sexual surge. As you suck me into the warm moist safety of you. To feel carnival university. Carnal university. Harrad U. And if my hands fly now over my body, each time I pause between these words, stroking my berry barry tits that are hard and ask to be bitten, as I periodically hold my balls and join you in our dorm room in the dark of night with the lights of us to sustain us and the window open just a bit to let in autumn cold to banish the too hot heat of the radiators we can't turn off, then come to me right now, kiss and duel our cocks together. Let me be a chapel that kneel before each other, chapels that fall into each other's arms. Let our cocks hard tingle their tips together. Let our arms around the other go. Let our lips meet. Our tongue tips touch so tentatively. Let me be clothed and you naked as you sit on the couch and work your dick up hard. A large one with a bit head that is uncut. Your legs throbbing and sticking straight out at times. Wanting to do your best for me but your knowing that your just being here is all the best I could ever require of you. Working your dick, looking at me, smiling at me as I smile bright warm beams at you.

As I jack off harder now, thinking what I've written, what, if anyone is reading this, is being read. As your hand rises rushes gasps up and down your dick stem, and I put my hand to your leg that is trembling and the all of you an iris that is focused only on your masturbation. Beautiful word, masturbation. Work in progress. Gilding a Lilly that needs to be gilded over and over because no matter how beautiful it was the first time it will be even prettier and more colorful the second and the third, for I shall never tire of seeing you pull your pud and all those other stupid phrases people use. As I caress your leg and hold my head to your chest. As I bend down and bite your left ball just very gently. As I hold you and when you come, the satisfaction and pride and mischievousness on your face, as you shoot into my hand and the Kleenex I'm holding, as your come still drips, some of it down your shaft and onto your belly where I will lick it off in a moment. The warm hot heart sticky protein rich heat of you in my hand that holds the Kleenex.

My sex feeling gets stronger as I write this ending. As I prepare to go to the bedroom, open drapes, for okay I am an exhibitionist, big deal, and put in my video tape of "Swim Meat" to watch swimmers do everything there is to do with each other, tease and taste and fuck and suck and seduce and undress and be kind and be hunky and be talented at coming every single time on cue, it's what they get paid for. We pay so much for everything, I'm afraid, especially we pay for the sad times. They cost everything in us.

But still if I close my eyes just a bit, I'll see you there and I will lie on my back and I will continue to stroke myself. And I will moan a bit and cry out a name here and there. I will flex my hips and grind my hand into myself as I watch the video and the illusion of naked young men right in front of me, seeing me, loving me, and I will as always remember those sweet kind friendly words when I was being masturbated by Ricky as I lay on my side with my boy of winter behind me snuggled up close to me as he rubbed me so expertly and with such slyness and happiness and said "comin' yet?" And he never failed to bring me off. Which is what in this story I've attempted to do in my own bumbling way. If I failed, and I probably did, then my apologies.

But if I've given anyone a moment's respite from the day that is too much with you, from friends you can trust for about as far as you can throw them, and wouldn't you like to throw them as far as they deserve?, then I've served a purpose. And I will end this with the two loveliest words ever spoken to me in sunshine sprites and an absence of shadows. In their sweet longed for carnal university merriment:

"Comin' yet?"

end

Rate this story

Liked this story?

Nifty is entirely volunteer-run and relies on people like you to keep the site running. Please support the Nifty Archive and keep this content available to all!

Donate to The Nifty Archive
Nifty

© 1992, 2024 Nifty Archive. All rights reserved

The Archive

About NiftyLinks❤️Donate