Rich spent endless hours admiring the reflection of his own naked ass in the full-length wardrobe mirror. He lovingly stroked his buttocks, traced the long and lean contours, rubbed lotion into the crack, spiraled an oiled-up finger down into the soft tissues of the dark gateway. Spreading apart the cheeks, he imagined what it would feel like if... if only he could plunge his own dick inside... inside himself.
He had been with men often enough. Had even, out of something like morbid curiosity, made love to a woman once. Sticking his dick into a stranger's hole brought only temporary relief, and no satisfaction, no sense of completion. Having his own ass fucked was more intense, certainly, but it still felt like a desecration, somehow.
The revelation came to him after a frustrating all-night marathon with his last lover. Having fucked the guy's asshole raw, and with his own aching ass leaking cold, shit-stained semen, he all at once found the sight of another human repulsive. In the blood-suffused light of dawn, they'd had a grand blowout that culminated in Jethro's stomping out the apartment after telling Rich to go fuck himself. A brilliant light had detonated behind his eyeballs as he realized... that was precisely what he wanted. To fuck himself.
Impossible. It just plain couldn't be done. Taking his own slightly larger than average penis and pulling it down and backwards, forcibly wrapping it around the bottom of his torso, pulling even harder... the dick head fell just short of reaching his asshole. Now the shaft was hardening pulling even farther away. Nope, no way. It was an impossible dream.
Then, one night he dreamed... dreamed he was in an unfamiliar place, a dimly-lit booth or cubicle, and there was a small round hole in front of him at about crotch height. It was a sort of "glory hole," like the holes sometimes found between stalls in a public restroom... for the convenience of men wishing to stick their dicks through for anonymous strangers to perform anonymous acts on. But he somehow knew if he stuck his dick through this particular hole, there would be one very special ass waiting on the other side, waiting to open up and swallow the dick. It would be his own ass. He awoke feverish, bathed in sweat, with the sheets soaked with semen. He hadn't the vaguest idea of what he had dreamed.
Six months later he was still alone. And hungry. Hungry for sex. Hungry for touch. Hungry for fulfillment. Hungry for a little excitement. Just plain hungry. He dialed up the take-out place down the street.
He jerked awake at the dining table. The remains of an anchovy-and-mushroom pizza stared up at him. Must have nodded off. "These friggin midnight snacks'll do me in some day," he muttered.
He felt a shiver run down his spine, and had the eerie sensation that someone was in the room with him. Im-fucking-possible. He was safe and secure behind steel-reinforced double-locked doors and state-of-the-art electronic alarms. Paranoid Plaza, they called this apartment complex.
He slowly turned his head, and there was something there behind him. Something... there was something dangling, just hanging in mid-air! He leaped up, knocking over a chair in the process, and stared. Impossible. There was a an erect penis, a hard dick sticking out of the empty air, and it was hanging suspended at waist height!
This had to be another of those weird dreams he'd been having lately. No way this could be real. No friggin way.
"Hey, even if it is a dream, what've I got to lose?" He walked over to examine the impossible levitating cock.
It sure looked real. Felt real, too. This was an authentic flesh-and-blood boner hanging there. Kind of resembled his own cock, come to think of it. Funny, though, that looked like writing on its side. Yep, something scrawled on the skin in blue ballpoint ink.
"This IS your own cock, Roochie boy. You KNOW what to do with it."
Roochie was his baby name. No one had called him that for, gosh, at least a couple of decades. WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON HERE?
Well, he did know what he could do with that hanging hard cock, an apparent exact duplicate of his own cock. Dream or not, he needed it inside him. He hungered for it. His ass hungered for it. He wanted to be fucked by it.
Lube. Where had he put that damn jar of lube? It was even harder to find things in his messy apartment when dreaming than awake. Ah, there in the back of the sock drawer.
Now what was the proper protocol for a case like this? Should he lube up the hanging dream-cock or his asshole? Hey, it was his dream. Do 'em both, why not. He lowered his pants.
Rich turned his back on the suspended hard-on and carefully maneuvered his ass rearwards until he could feel the tip of the cock kiss the crack of his buttocks. Reached around and pulled apart his cheeks. Guided the cock toward, then into his asshole. Contact! Pressed backwards some more and felt it slide up into him. Further. Goin' down smooth. Oh yes, that felt nice!
As if he had tripped an unseen switch, the cock slowly began pumping in and out of him. In, all the way up to the hilt, withdrawing just about all the way out, then sliding in again. Oh yes, it was pressing his button, his prostate, just as he liked it. In, out, repeat. Yes!
He felt a rush of intense pleasure, of ecstasy, of consummation. It had never been this good before. Never. And why should that be so damn surprising? It was his own cock fucking him. Flesh of his own flesh. Into his own flesh. His dream come true.
This had to be the most realistic dream he had ever had. He could see, smell, taste, and feel everything in accurate, fine-grained detail. The tangy tomatoey odor of the pizza on the table. The oily, orange stains on the cardboard box. The salty-juicy taste of the blood from his bitten tongue. The sharp, throbbing pain of a bitten tongue.
The cock moving inside his ass was making all the right moves. It was giving him excruciatingly real-life tactile sensations of gut-rippling motion, of friction, stretching, and fullness. It was the concentrated essence of all the ass-fuckings he had ever experienced. It was beyond ecstasy... it was soul-boggling. And now he was coming, shooting... blasting his load all over the living room floor, and -- that -- was -- real.
The cock was twitching, pulsing within him, and he felt the familiar shot of wetness in his gut. A short hesitation, and it resumed pumping inside him, hard as ever. Still dreaming, was he? Rich was beginning to feel apprehensive. But it felt so fuckin' good!
AND THE WORLD LURCHED.
Something was very wrong. Rich was sitting on the floor with his mouth gaping wide open, staring at an overturned chair and the dinner table looming above him. His pants were down. Now how the hell had that happened? There seemed to be something inside him, inside his... There was that familiar feeling of fullness and stretching that he associated with being ass-fucked. The last thing he remembered was nodding out over a half-finished wedge of cold anchovy-mushroom pizza.