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Message-ID: <48322asstr$1088295003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
Reply-To: cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Glory Hole  (MM Msolo gay cons anal ScFi)
Lines: 252
Date: Sat, 26 Jun 2004 20:10:03 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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GLORY HOLE
By Carlos Malenkov (writing as Kien Reti)
Word Count: 2254
Copyright (c) 2003 by Carlos Malenkov



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.

He reached underneath to investigate. Yes, there was something inside him
all right. He grabbed the protruding stub with a couple of fingertips and
yanked it out of his ass. It couldn't be! It was a realistic simulacrum of
a penis. Very realistic. Not realistic -- real! It was a penis, all right,
still erect, still engorged (moist with ejaculate and a couple of brown
shit-smears), but it had been very neatly severed at its root. There
were the balls, complete with pubic hair . . . yet there was no blood
in evidence.  The hard, translucent glaze at the base of the thing
suggested it had been heat or pressure sealed, surgically cauterized.

Awakening from a dream he couldn't remember with an amputated hard dick
in his ass! No! Even more distressing was how closely it resembled his
own. He compared it to his dick, limp and wet from a recent ejaculation
(when?). Same veinwork, scars, everything. The severed dick had what
looked like a long smear of blue ink on one side. Like someone had
written something there that had been rubbed out (by the friction of
ass fucking?).

In the harsh, cold light of morning, everything seemed to snap back to
normality. The realistic-looking dildo was still sitting on his bathroom
sink, where he remembered tossing it before falling into bed. But as for
the rest of it -- no way! It was all a dream. A dream, then thinking he
had awakened, but still dreaming.

A week later the dildo was beginning to smell a bit funny. Like week-old
meat turning bad in the back of the fridge, actually. He sealed it in
a zip-lock bag, tossed it into the trash and shrugged it off. A week
after that, it was just another of the many strange memories in a very
strange life.



Five years later, Rich was poor. In fact, he was nearly destitute. The
apartment complex had burned to the ground and there hadn't been any fire
insurance. The absentee owners had declared bankruptcy, then skipped town
to escape lawsuits. Rich had lost everything and received no compensation.
He had no savings left, few possessions, and his unemployment benefits had
almost run out.

The ad in the paper was a lifeline to a drowning man. Some outfit called
"OGRE," allegedly a privately-run research lab, was promising good money
to a suitable subject for an experiment.

Rich stared up at the massive polished-granite facade of the Old Glory
Research Establishment. True to its name, it was festooned with American
flags. His footsteps echoed down the cavernous cathedral-roofed lobby. The
woman at the information kiosk directed him toward a bank of elevators.

"Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Professor Doyle Challenged, and
quantum physics is my game. 'OGRE' is a privately funded scientific
institute studying the effects of high-energy particle interactions with
ordinary matter.

"You understand that you are volunteering as a test subject for a
potentially hazardous experiment. My assistant has already explained
the risks to you."

Rich had known it might involve some danger. But that fifty thou dangled
in front of his nose had made up his mind. In a hurry. He'd rather brave
potential risks than the very real risks of homelessness in the near
future when he ran out of gelt.

"A 'Bose-Einstein Condensate' is a an odd state of matter even under
normal conditions. When we focus ultra-high energy X-ray lasers on it,
we observe some highly anomalous effects. There appears to be a sort of
space-time distortion produced. To be more specific, it seems to tear
asunder the continuum and link up a limited aperture between two distinct
temporal loci. In other words, it opens a window on the past. It's the
nearest anyone has ever come to . . . time travel."

Rich couldn't believe what this nutty professor was spouting. But for
fifty grand, he'd play along with just about any brand of lunacy.
Time travel? No problemo, chief.

So here he was, standing in this metal cage. A "Faraday Cage," they called
it. Blinding lightings flared and fat sparks crackled just outside the
copper-titanium lattice enclosing him. This was the backlash from the
laser discharge, Professor C. had explained. The equivalent of thirty
billion volts of electrical potential.

And there *it* was -- the small circular vortex in the air just in
front of him. A "wormhole between space-times," according to the prof.
A three-inch diameter hole between the present and the past . . . his own
past, approximately five years back. A crazy thought kept ricocheting
through his head . . . that he was staring at an "Old Glory Research
Hole." He'd had extensive experience with "glory holes" all right,
back in his anonymous sex encounter days . . .



"Now, Rich, when the wormhole appears, poke a single finger through it
and try to attract the attention of . . . of your past self on the other
side. Just reach out and touch yourself. Nothing more.

"Don't worry. According to the theory, no 'time travel' paradox can
possibly result. This event has already occurred on your world-line.
It happened to you five years ago, but you experienced temporal-shock
amnesia and forgot what happened. You yourself verified this, since you
couldn't recall being touched by a flying fickle finger of fate floating
in midair, ha, ha.

"Remember, though. We can only keep the wormhole stable for about five
minutes. Make sure, *damn sure*, you don't have your finger or anything
else sticking through there any longer than that! When the timer buzzes,
step back immediately."



Rich held his breath, and the trembling stopped. He reached forward to jab
a finger through the shimmering hole . . . and again the thought struck
him. GLORY HOLE! He jerked back and pondered for a couple of seconds, then
came to a decision. He pulled out a ballpoint pen and unzipped his fly.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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