Fuck 1.5

At 19 years old, Keante stood '6'3' and was athletically built, with broad shoulders and a strong neck. From a first impression, he looked a lot like a football player, but whereas a football player was bulkier and meatier, Keante was leaner, and less rough and rigid. Basketball to the core, but good as a linebacker if he needed to be given a chance on the field.

The only real indication of raw power came from the intense but smooth veins in his forearms and hands, which were covered with small scars; a result of his years fighting on the streets, and the abuse he suffered years ago from his mother's transgressions.

His face was crude, with full cheeks and well-formed lips which often protruded outward—not all the way, but enough to be menacing in some aspects—when he was mean mugging someone; if not, they were normal full, black lips. His eyes, which were hazel, were pink: somewhat bloodshot, but fully, even though he still could pass off as a weed head. His head still pounded somewhat, and his chest was heaving. He looked like a model, and in comparison to celebrities, some girls had gone so far as to equate him to being considered a darker version of Chris Brown; which would've been normal in this instance, but for now, that was another story. Right now, he felt like pure and total shit. Pretending to look sexy only made his body lurch even worse.

What he couldn't for the life of himself figure out, was what the fuck had actually happened to him?

What was that dream? He thought, why did it seem so real?

And who was that guy—that-that… kid?

I seriously must be on some dumb shit to be even dreaming about this…

Me… dickin' down a nigga? And a nigga that look like a chick?

The fuck have I been smokin'?

He paused in his thoughts.

But…

He… He was beautiful.

The way he felt… It's almost like he, felt at home in my arms. And his body, it was slender, and so small, I felt like I was gonna break him in half.

But I didn't.

I…I…

Aach!

It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer against a bell, the way his head hurt. He couldn't describe it, but that didn't compare to the ache his whole body felt. It was like he been restrained menacingly and then shot out of a cannon, the feeling of wind ripping and slicing through him, tearing away his flesh and shredding his insides like ribbons. But the constricting, tightening, feeling, he couldn't shake it off; it was cold, solid, and metallic... like chains unto his soul.

"Ahhh!" he groaned, his teeth gritting smartly.

Beware the eternal hunger. Beware the consummation of fear and despair.

His body ached, and he trembled in fear as those words echoed in his subconscious and vibrated throughout his body, burning into his muscles and searing into flesh. His arms ached immensely, but he couldn't remember why. But whatever the reason, the pain was almost hypnotic in a ways.

As if in response to the pain, Keante began rubbing his elbows and upper arms.

He continued to massage them before he moved onward to the rest of his aching body, moving up and down making sure he spared no one space on his skin. Keante closed his eyes as he did, allowing himself a temporary relief from the sight of pain, and by chance found his left hand massaging a particular place, warm and almost hot with wiry anticipation. The more he rubbed, the warmer it got, and suddenly the warmth gained weight, and numb. It was like waking up a new sense, only with each centimeter it rose, the sudden burning was unmistakable—only it felt good. A soft sigh escaped him as he kindly massaged himself, almost meticulous as he did so. Not directly touching or disrupting the warmth that slowly crept into his veins, muscles and tendons, but taking care to attend to other places, like all that dangling beneath it, and then further away from it, a darkness that was both cold to the touch and yet simultaneously the most curious.

The warmth beneath him grew, and as it did, so to the heat that suddenly spooned him. The burning had lessened to a degree, but the sudden sensation of demanding attention made him focus all out to it. Finally giving in, his left hand expectantly wrapped itself around it.

He winced in satisfaction; his hand felt like it belonged there. That's when the moving started. Slow at first; deliberate as to not ruin the moment, but then picking up until it felt more like a race. Opening his eyes, he looked himself up and down in the mirror. Biting his lip, he analyzed every inch of himself.

He had one leg perched on the toilet and was glistening with sweat. It was obvious from the beads that ran down the six packs that made up his abs that he wouldn't be leaving until this matter was dealt with. He was completely shredded in the muscular sense, even for a basketball player, but was thin enough that it worked for him.

He rubbed himself down further, biting his lip. And almost like magic, he suddenly felt the touch of a soft hand caress his chest. These soft, delicate hands moved and up down his body a sense of calm and relaxation radiating from them with each sensitive caress they provided. And not by chance did he find himself hearing moaning and gasping as the voice of his forbidden love softly serenading him in his ears.

He heard gasping and groaning, a voice saying more, baby please. More!

Likewise, he started groaning, in response to the voice, moaning and gasping as well to the sound of clapping loud in his voice.

"You like that baby, you like how hit it there?" he asked, "you like it there baby?"

Yes, oh god yes, please, more, give me more. Please, I can't take it anymore.

"I got you bae, I got you", he replied, pleased with himself.

He continued to whisper and coo for minutes, the pace of his beating in unison with the moans and gasps of his silent hearings, until the voices changed from give me more, to don't pull out. At that instant, he nostrils flared again and his pace increase, his beat faster, and his muscles bulged and grew warm with a special fuzzy feeling. Keante's closed eyes furrowed and his beetled, his pace increasing even more so much so that even with the door closed, the loudness of his actions made it more obvious that he simply would not stop.

A few moments later, he gasped and finally let it out of his mouth.

"Aah fuck, aah fuck!" he finally grunted.

His body heaved, his chest felt like it would explode, and the burning intensified. It felt like hot iron in his grasp—painful and excruciating to the senses—and yet it felt so fucking good! He went further, switching between bouts of "aah fuck, fuck yes baby!" to "omigosh nigga!" to "I love you baby! I love you so fucking much!", when he finally finished his fill.

It happened so quick, and so sudden: overwhelming pressure building and bottling up inside of him. The end result was an immediate and frightening wave of calm, lasting only a small second before he exploded. He sprayed, spilling over the sink and floor, releasing fumes of musk, pleasure, and sweat. It lasted for a bought a minute or two, the eruption, before his heaving and twitching permitted him a quiet reprieve. Looking at it, it looked a water hose; not very big or grand. But to him, it was Mt. St. Helens had finally crescendo-ed its main eruption into a symphony of pure might.

It was powerful, decimating, and destructive.

It was beautiful.

It was a serious thing....

Well. At least to Keante.

The sensation did not last long, however, and following suit, a massive surge of vertigo from the sexually induced overload had washed over him. Keante opened his eyes, only to heave over the sink. The trembling that came after was so momentous; it was almost like a miniature earthquake. Dizzy and stupid, his legs numb and turning to Jell-O, Keante could only hold himself weak as wave after wave of dizziness took over. The room spun profusely in various directions, twisting and turning and stretching and shrinking in unison of an uncanny display. If he was drugged, this would be similar in comparison, but as he was not, it did not matter. The same could be said if he was drunk, but that too did not matter. For now... what mattered, was that the poor boy was reeling from a sexual high that left him drained and aching for both rest and, unfortunately, more sex.

"Ugghh", he finally managed, "this shit...."

He couldn't finish.

Once again, he doubled over and lurched, feeling ready to vomit. He didn't, but held himself in the position no less; all wary and no edge. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the worst of the motion sickness settled and his body loosened up. Easing up a bit, he sighed and lifted his head, looking upon himself in the mirror once again.

Nothing had changed.

There he was, a soaking mess of flesh and bone panting like a lap dog. Right now, he looked like hammered shit and felt like it as well.

"Fuck", he sputtered, "fuck."

Groaning with uneasiness, Keante turned around from the sink to walk into the shower tub directly across. After closing the curtain and shaking off the unsteadiness of his hands, he grabbed the water knobs and turned on the shower. What came next was only expected: despite setting the water to the temperature that felt good to the hands, when the stream touched his body, Keante nearly screamed aloud as the temperature of the water collided with the temperature of the heat radiating from his skin.

It was like acid seeping into his pores and slithering into his flesh, a venomous, seductive dance of pain and agony that was torturous... and yet uncontrollably addictive and stimulating as the two opposing sides fought for control. The softness of the cool water battled against the unyielding fire burning beneath his pores, fighting long and arduous, until their eventual consummation resulted in the inhumanly impossible: steam. The young man's body was literally boiling externally until it steamed, as unknown to him, bright flames flickered from his fingertips. The sparks of fire were small, no larger than a match light, only they changed colors ranging from hot pink, to adobe yellow, to tangy orange.

Keante bathed for a few minutes more before calling it quits. Turning off the water and grabbing a towel, he stepped out and wiped himself down in the steamy bathroom, his nostrils opening up from the stress relieving sense the vapors gave. And yet despite his discomforts, Keante was completely unaware of the small blue flames glowing on his shoulders reflected in the mirror; his back to the glass as his faced the wall while drying off, until the flames disappeared as he fully stepped out the shower, and looked at himself in the mirror once again.

He looked tired, but refreshed no less.

Walking out of his bathroom, he looked at his surroundings. His room was junky, littered with clothes and shoes, a typical boy's room. The window was still cracked open to his far left, while his bedroom door was to his close left. A poster of Ciara, topless and covering her half-naked self with her hands as her bikini was slipping off, hung on the wall next to the door, under which was his hamper, barfing dirty clothes, and right next to that a large mirror and dresser, on which were bottles, papers, cans, snacks, even a box of Trojans.

They were gold, solid gold, or at least that's what the box said. Either way they came in handy when he brought in girls to fuck. But with the moon beaming downward on his bed, if it weren't for his TV, he could barely make out their shapes.

To his right, his desk, with his MacBook Pro, which had died (obviously, why the fuck didn't he charge it? He though, ugh, fuck!), along with last week's homework from three classes, all of which he hated: Theory of Knowledge, English, and Computer Science. Right next to him, his 62-inch flat screen, which he left on TBS from watching reruns of Big Bang Theory, was stuck on a telemarketing infomercial, selling total gyms that only looked half as good as they sounded, with dopey ass white people saying how they got steroid muscles using them. In the far right corner of his room, his sliding closet door was open, and his shoe shelf shone in the moonlight. 40 individual pairs of Nike's and Jordan's adorned all three levels, while at on the lowest he kept 3 pairs of black Italian Conquistadors; for when he had to show up to church, which he rarely did, unless he planned on getting laid in the basement while the service was going on.

He sighed, scratched his chest, and peeling off his towel, walked nude to bed. A large, jagged, diamond shaped stain spanned the length of most of the bed, with smaller lines indicating where his limbs were. Originally, pitch black, the stain was softer now, almost hard to make out, but still noticeable. Shrugging it off, went back to his towel, and threw it on the bed, and stretching out atop it, laid back down on his mattress. He turned to his right, that small bed stand looked ominous in the dark; where his alarm clock shone in the black, lamp, and his desert eagle handgun pistol were barely markable beyond their outlines.

He looked at the clock; it was 2:15 a.m. Only 5 minutes passed overall.

Suddenly, the number clicked.

It was now 2:21.