Tuesday Morning

Hi, this is my first time writing one of these stories. Hope you like it, feel free to e-mail me with comments!

(callipitter_reflex@yahoo.com)

Chapter 1:

"Tuesday morning" he said to himself, sitting up quickly like a vampire rising from the grave. His mind jostled around fragments of conversations reminding him of responsibilities not yet fulfilled, movies not seen, books not read, but these were over shadowed vastly by his responsibilities. He hadn't paid his share of the rent, hadn't taken out the trash, called his boss back for God knows what reason, blah, blah, blah. A month past his nineteenth birthday and Tom Ikle had more responsibility than most thirty-year-olds.

"Fuck" he muttered under his breath, a verbal substitute for a sigh, and got up scratching his head in the process, soft mousey brown English hair parted for his fingers. Outside, wafts of mist curled like frolicking dolphins over a normally busy street, garbage cans in their usual places still filled with trash and waiting like prisoners to be taken.

He'd only glanced through the sliding glass door for a second before letting the dark blue curtain fall back into place. He didn't know why he looked out there every morning, seeing the same street with the same trash bins. Consciously he'd say he didn't know why; maybe he just liked the way his neighborhood looked before it was teeming with life. Subconsciously...he was waiting. Hoping something unexpected would happen and change him because he could not change himself.

He slowly paced his way into the bathroom (snores from the adjacent room told him his room mate was still asleep), tugging up his soft cotton pajama pants which were loosely hanging off of his bottom, He scratched his chest; it certainly was not flimsy. He had a moderate amount of muscles covering his body, nothing too extreme (though there were signs of a six-pack forming beneath his flat stomach) and the muscles that did stand out were mostly covered in a thin film of hair which had always bugged him. He leaned over the sink for a moment, sill waking up before tiredly looking to the mirror to greet himself. He looked at his face for a moment, a clear face, nicely shaped nose probably inherited by his English ancestors, a very light amount of stubble near his side burns (he normally only needed to shave once a week), water-like blue eyes that were soft when the lights were dim and vibrant when it was bright. He did have an attractive face, only problem was the only ones who saw it were his co-workers and room mate, neither of which he was interested in dating.

Tom just didn't have time for a social life. He found himself busy with work and busy with bills; it seemed like the wrong description to apply to him; Tom was the type that looked like he'd just finished his first year of college, still young and full of energy. He was...but it was repressed once he started work, deciding to dismiss college in favor of a marketable job in advertising. Not once was he able to go out with a "friend", the only ones he had had moved on from high school leaving Tom in their ascension.

He sighed and stood erect; pulling his pants down thoughtlessly, the fabric pouring off of him like water which he'd soon be submerged in. He then turned to his shower and walked in, closing the milky-white plastic behind him.

Tom was actually quite attractive and sizeable as well; cut and six inches flaccid, he admired his cock for its symmetry, a thick shaft that looked appropriate for its size and a nicely shaped head that ended in a nubby point, not at all like those mushroom heads he'd seen before and to which he felt no attraction.

He gulped, finding himself thinking of beautiful men as he turned the faucet on, a hot stream of water hit him in the face causing an instant relief of warm pleasure to pour over him. He really could get a date with any guy he wanted if he'd try, but there was always work, there were always bills, and there was always tomorrow. A sigh as he began to clear his mind for the brief moment he had of relaxation, checking out for the moment to become himself.

Who was the real Tom Ikle? Tom couldn't describe the real him, he himself was much too complex. The real Tom could only exist as he was in the shower; familiar with his body, surrounded by warmth^×a creature of pleasure.

He grabbed a bottle of body wash and squirted it out onto his open palm, setting the bottle back down to massage his chest in suds. He turned from the water to wash himself, the water poured on his back and bottom as if rubbing him into submission, telling him to relax and go with his instincts.

That was his major flaw; Tom could not go with his instincts. He was living a life that was given to him, underneath was someone else, not Tom Ikle, some real creature that wanted to get out- needed to, but could not.

His hand trailed down his stomach habitually, sliding over the slowly growing length dangling between his legs. Images flashed through his mind; he was doing what he wanted, being the real person beneath his façade.

In his fantasy he lay on a large mauve cushion, large sticks of incense were stuck around the room issuing smoke in different colors and with different smells but they all had a familiar spiciness to them. His skin was lighter than usual though it had a shade of pink under it that boasted of his healthiness and from the neck down not a strand of hair of even the shortest length could be found.

The air was warm but not hot, for two large leafs were moving back and forth close to windows draped with vibrantly covered cloths, and as Tom looked in on his fantasy he saw that he was in a Moroccan looking room that looked far too fantastic to be constructed in his time. The fantasy-Tom sighed and stretched like an Egyptian cat accustomed to royalty; a single silver circlet shifted on his ankle and seemed to be his only article of clothing.

Suddenly the sound of feet moving closer to the room could be heard but only by the real Tom. The fantasy-Tom was still asleep, beautiful as ever, picturesque even and did not wake when a figure appeared in the door way of the room.

"Mm." said the figure, a muscular man with light brown skin. His face was middle-eastern but seemed to have a touch of Europe in it and was quite beautiful, eyes the same color as his skin.

He almost could pass for a Disney character in an Aladdin movie were it not that his clothing looked appropriate. On him was an open beige vest that gave a glimpse at his muscles which looked to be formed naturally through hard work in the desert. Around his waist was a white strand of cloth that capped pants the color of sand and below those he wore nothing, having removed his sandals once entering his home, for it was his home to be certain.

The real Tom licked his lips as he imaged his master, and thought up a name for him `Hassan' something seemed to whisper to him but he could not place the memory that conveyed the name but he decided to use it anyway.

Lord Hassan grinned as he saw his newest slave curled up on a comfortable cushion and proceeded to remove his vest slowly. Lord Hassan was not in a hurry; he never was. He earned all he had and paid for what he wanted. He owed no one...but many owed him.

He dismissed his slave for the moment and walked over to a tub built of sturdy bricks the inside of which was filled with cold, clear water that laid still.

Lord Hassan feared no one.

He was honest and loyal to his allies and a fierce and accurate foe to his enemies which, presently, he did not have. He was a hunter, accurate and stealthy; if he wanted someone killed he did it himself and always succeeded. Above all, however, he was a brave man and a man of reason who gave what he did not want or need, and he presently needed and wanted his slave.

The real Tom whimpered slightly as he continued to fantasize, hoping to sustain this fantasy as long as possible.

The fantasy-Tom smirked like a happy kitten, peeping an eye out at his Master, purring to himself as he watched him undress and step, unhesitant, into the water. Lord Hassan, whose face was turned from his slave, grinned as well as he knew his slave's eyes were on him, watching the hard, accurate muscles slip into water,

"My slave, you are awake." Lord Hassan pointed out, turning to the smirking Tom.

"Yes, Master..." He arose, still cat-like, and bowed to his master whose eyes poured over Tom's form as if he were a work of art, a rare pale beauty before him that belonged solely to him. It was true that Lord Hassan could, if he wanted, take what he want but all who knew him (and all did) knew that he believed only in earning rightfully what one wishes to possess.

"Sit" he gestured, a command that was spoken as if offering, but Tom understood and gladly obeyed.

"I will come to you instead." Lord Hassan's eyes flickered with deviance as he finished scrubbing his now clean skin and climbed out of the tub, his nude front facing, unashamedly, his slave who's eyes bulged as they had so many times before.

The real Tom whimpered as a thick, limp, eight inch cock formed in his mind, a work of art that was shaded a light dusty brown color and looked to be the most delicious thing to both the real Tom and the fantasy one.

"Master..." he gasped softly.

Lord Hassan grabbed an arrant cloth and began to dry himself as he approached his slave,

"On your stomach, slave" he commanded, his voice slightly quivering with lust. As Lord Hassan tossed the cloth aside Tom rolled over like a cat in heat and slightly parted his legs, had he a tail it would have flicked around in anticipation.

The real Tom stroked faster, sitting down in his shower, subconsciously rubbing his ass against the tiled floor.

Lord Hassan slid his growing length in-between the gap between his slave's leg and package. He leaned forward and pressed his chest against his slave's back; it was warm and comforting and caused Tom to shiver hotly, moving his head back to expose his neck to his Master.

"You learn quickly, slave" Lord Hassan said and slid his pink tongue along his slave's jaw line, moving his right hand under to rub the stretched, pale stomach below him. Tom pushed his bottom back against his Master who was, save for a cropped square of hair in the front, as hairless as himself. Tom purred out and further exposed his neck to his Master who suddenly moved down and off of him. He whimpered softly but accepted his Master's wishes and waited for his next move which he discovered quite delightfully as a warm tongue pressed itself against his pink pucker.

He gasped silently, biting softly down on his lip, the real Tom was getting close now as his thumb and index finger massaged his cock tip causing it to ooze out pre-cum which was quickly washed away by the hot water.

Lord Hassan ran the flat of his tongue around his slave's bulging rose bud, slipping in now and then to loosen his hole, causing Tom to moan aloud.

"As sweet as a strawberry..." Lord Hassan cooed out on pulling his lapping tongue away, "Your tongue is as skilled as ever, Master" Tom shivered out, digging his fingers into the fabric below him as his slightly opened bud pulsed wantonly.

"The pleasure is mine, slave" Lord Hassan's hand moved down from Tom's belly and onto his erect and wet-tipped cock which he stroked teasingly, "Ohh...Master...you are far from the truth" He managed to croak out.

This pleased Lord Hassan to hear.

Tom stroked faster, wanting his imaginary Master badly.

Lord Hassan decided to take what was his and moved his hips backward, sliding his thick cock into Tom in one fluidic move.

"Ah!-" his cry was just barely cut off before it started, a hot pair of balls lightly touched his own as his passage way became occupied. He wanted to beg his Master, cry out to him to take his slave as he must but instead he bucked back and arched his back, milking the cock lodged within him with his experienced anal muscles.

Lord Hassan knew he had a treasure, he knew that many would kill to own such an expert slave and this is why, above all else, he coveted his one and only slave. The moment he had tried him out at the Bazaar he knew all others in his harem were obsolete, all of them inept and worthless. Tom was the perfect, the type of pleasure slave that was known, at least colloquially, as a "jewel".

Lord Hassan slowly, yet aggressively, pounded his slave's ass causing Tom to gasp with each thrust. The real Tom knew he could not produce this fantasy much longer (though it did seem to come naturally to him, as if he'd seen a movie or read a book in which he saw these images) and continued to imagine his "Master" fucking his ass.

Lord Hassan chewed on his slave's neck, already his tight hole was bringing him close to climax, "So young...and all ready a jewel..." he groaned out.

Tom was not that old to be a jewel, in fact, but Lord Hassan knew he was not raised a pleasure slave as most jewels were. Tom could barely comprehend his Master who was now fucking hard and fast, giving his slave his all. Both Toms whimpered, the fantasy-Tom was dizzy with pleasure, his hole now wide and dripping with precum he knew both his Master and himself were close to climax.

Lord Hassan slammed in hard one last time, gripping his slave close to him as he sent wave after wave of semen into Tom who greedily sucked it up, the feeling of hot cum against his prostate glad sent him over the edge. He proceeded to stain the sheets with his own hot jizz but neither his Master nor he cared. The real Tom's fantasy started to fade as his cock spit out the last strand of cum which swam down a small grill in the shower floor.

He panted softly and let his hand drop to the ground, "God" he thought, "Where did that come from?"

He'd never imagined something like that so vividly before.

Suddenly there was a large boom that came from the direction of his room and sounded as if someone had detonated a small bomb near the wall with the glass door set into it, for there was the unmistakable sound of broken glass.

He shot up instantly, his cock becoming flaccid once more, and threw open the shower door, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist before running out the bathroom door. In his room (or what was left of it) were the remains of a wall and a glass door, glass and wet-wall everywhere. His bed was turned over, ripped almost completely in half, the shelves next to it were now nonexistent and the things they held were either in pieces or gone completely.

Tom took all this in in an instant and glanced at what seemed to be the direction of the noise. In its place he found a large sheet of what looked to be pure darkness, as if the absence of light had gathered into a sheet and solidified...but what surprised Tom the most were two figures standing in front of the `sheet of darkness': a short man in a long coat which looked to be made solely out of used bandages and a taller woman who looked as if she'd been fused with a tree.

Tom was too shocked to say anything and simply gaped at the two who had yet to notice a wet man wearing only a towel. The short man was the first to talk.

"Shit." He said.