"Regular Text" = dialog spoken aloud.

'Italic Text' = internal thoughts and dialog not spoken aloud and not projected mentally. *Bold Text* = dialog or thoughts projected mentally and therefore 'heard' in the mind of the 'listener'

Chapter 1 - Ryan.

After the incredibly crap-filled day I'd already had, it shouldn't have surprised me when I feel the first cold drops of rain drizzling down on me. It's early February which means it had been dark for a while now even though it was barely six o'clock in the evening. Of course it didn't help much that it had been grey and overcast all day and never really got bright enough outside to constitute actual daylight. But now it's fucking pitch dark out and raining and I, Ryan Kettering, recent teenage runaway and fledgling street person, have absolutely no place to sleep. My life fucking sucks big, hairy, lumpy balls!

'Shit! I don't know why I'm surprised that it's raining again. I mean this IS February in Portland. God damned temperate rainforest crap. If I only had enough money to get a bus ticket to fucking California I'd go back in a heartbeat! Only MY idiot mother would be stupid enough to follow some guy to Portland, Oregon and then get dumped so that we're all trapped here in the land without a sun!'

Keeping up an internal dialog doesn't really help except to the extent it distracts me from noticing how the rain is seeping into the shoulder seams of my old jeans jacket. Or how icy cold my feet feel in my cracked and holey old converse sneakers that are even wetter after I'd stepped in that puddle a few blocks back. I better get moving if I don't want to get completely drenched.

I've been sitting on a bench down in Waterfront Park since just after noon, trying to catch a few minutes of sleep here and there. I had planned to maybe find a place under the big rhododendron bushes there to crash come night time. But, now that it was raining, that prospect didn't seem nearly as welcoming. And since my sleeping bag and my backpack with all my clothes had been stolen this morning while I was trying to beg some spare change off the business suits in Pioneer Courthouse Square, my sleeping arrangements were looking pretty bleak. I figure I'll be at least a little better moving up towards Old Town where there are alleys and doorways that might provide some protection from the rain. Out here in the open in the park all I'll find is more fucking rain.

I know I've only been out here on the streets for like three weeks, but it feels like it's been forever. I feel like I'm a hundred years old. I'm so tired that I can hardly pick up my feet as I walk - which doesn't help much when it comes to keeping my cold feet out of rain puddles. I'm also so hungry at this point that I can barely think straight.

So much for my big plan to escape from my Mom's new boyfriend, right? I knew he was a fucking creep from the first moment I laid eyes on the guy. Mom just seemed happy to have a man around again - any man - even if it appeared that the guy was sometimes more interested in her seventeen year old son than in her.

Yeah, Mom has a BIG self-esteem problem. But I kinda stopped feeling sorry for her after she refused to believe me when I told her about Gary coming onto me and touching me all the time. Telling me that she thought it was NICE that he was trying to get along with me, really pissed me off.

Well, if she wants to shack up with Mr. Ted-Bundy-Wanna-Be, that's her decision. The day Gary cornered me in the laundry room in the basement of our apartment building and then pinned me to the wall and tried to pull off my pants was it for me. Maybe I should have waited around and thought things through a bit more, but at the time it didn't seem wise. I just packed my shit and ran - right after I'd kneed him in the balls and left him sobbing in a big greasy heap on the basement floor. Even now, cold, wet, starving and exhausted, living on the streets with no place to sleep, I still think I made the right call. I know Gary's type and he's only going to get nastier with time.

But all this introspective shit isn't going to help me find something to eat or a place out of the rain where I can sleep. I have to shake myself mentally to get rid of my brooding thoughts. I look around at the nearest street sign and note I'm on Second Avenue now. Down the block to my right is the old Skidmore Fountain. I remember hanging out down here last summer with my friends and walking around in the stalls set up for the Saturday Market. Now though, it's practically deserted. The only life I can see are the two hustlers standing on the far corner waiting for some rich john to happen by.

Considering my own current state of hunger and lack of sleeping accommodations for the night I'm starting to think those guys have the right idea. It's rather ironic, isn't it, that I ran away to escape getting buggered by my Mom's boyfriend only to wind up out on the street giving blowjobs just to get enough money to eat? Talk about 'Out of the frying pan and into the fire', right? But at least out here I get to decide who I service and when. And so far none of the guys I've gone off with have been half as creepy as Gary.

While I'm standing here looking around without much of a plan, a big silver Lexus drives up and one of the kids on the far corner jumps in. The car drives off. The other kid shrugs and starts to walk away, heading over towards Burnside, maybe looking for a better, more lucrative, street corner. He probably has a point. If I'm going to do this, I should probably follow him. This block is pretty dead. I'm not likely to find somebody willing to pay for my dinner here.

Or . . . I could be wrong.

Just as I step off the curb into the side street, a big black SUV with dark tinted windows turns the corner and slowly cruises towards me. The way the driver is just barely creeping along is a pretty good clue exactly why he's in this particular neighborhood on a rainy deserted night. It's not to take in the sights, that's for sure. So I sigh with resignation and move back up onto the curb, waiting to see what this guy will do. As the car nears, it slows even more. I try to look as seductive as a wet, dirty, street kid possibly can.

The SUV pulls up even with me and stops. The window closest to me - the one on the passenger side of the car - slowly rolls down and I can see the shadowy outline of a guy in the passenger seat leering out at me. Behind him, in the driver's seat, I can see another face lit up by the eerie glow of the dashboard instruments. The guy closest to me leans out of the window far enough that the rain starts to dampen his gelled back hair and he smiles at me knowingly.

"Hey, there!" passenger guy says. "What's a pretty boy like you doing out here in the rain?"

So that's got to be the cheesiest line ever, am I right? This guy has got to be the biggest loser ever. Probably some closeted old fag trying to enjoy his one night away from the little wifey. From what I can see, though, he's not a total troll. And I am cold, hungry, and wet. Who am I to judge?

"I'm just looking for some company for the night," I reply using my own cheesy line - one I'd picked up from a television show that I'd thought at the time sounded good. "You interested?"

"Maybe. Just how expensive is your companionship, pretty boy?"

"That depends on just how friendly you wanna get," I respond, trying to sound like I know what the fuck I'm doing, while wondering in the back of my mind how to tell if these guys are cops and trying to remember what television-land lessons I learned said about soliciting sex. "You tell me what you want and I'll let you know . . ."

"I'd like to get VERY friendly with those pretty red lips of yours, I think," the guy says, chucking any and all attempts at pretense, motioning at the same time for me to step closer.

"My lips and your dick getting together would run you fifty bucks," I lean down and rest my forearms on the edge of the window with as much bravado as I can muster as I make my proposal.

"He IS a pretty one. Looks fresh, too," the guy behind the wheel comments.

"That would be fifty, each," I quickly clarify just so there's no confusion later. "Up front."

The passenger guy grins at me and winks. It gives me the creeps for some reason. Driver guy leans over and whispers something to Passenger Guy. They both chuckle while they eye me up and down. Shit, I really hate this. I feel like the 'Pink Plate Special' at the neighborhood diner being carted out for the patrons to look over before they decide on their choice for dinner. The way they're leering at me makes me feel even dirtier than I actually am. Finally, Driver guy nods his approval and I get the impression I've passed inspection.

"You've got a deal, pretty boy," Passenger Guy states, leaning back to pull the handle so the rear door pops open. "Fifty each for my buddy and me. Plus we wanna stop by and pick up another friend, too. Terrance is gonna love you. He's always been one for the tall brunet types. If he likes what he sees you can be sure of another customer. Hop in."

'Shit. Three of 'em? I wasn't exactly planning on making this into a party. But . . . What the hell. I might as well man up and do this. It's not getting any warmer out here and the dinner fairy isn't likely to turn up, wave her magic wand, and make a cheeseburger appear out of the blue. It's not like I really have any better options, right?'

Steeling my resolve, I step up into the back seat of the impeccably clean SUV. My wet and muddy clothing leaves an unattractive smear as I slide into the cream colored leather seat, and I try to surreptitiously wipe it away but my sleeve is almost as dirty. Oh well. It's not my car, so what the fuck do I care? I lean back and try not to think about anything other than the fact that it's warm and dry in here and hopefully, in an hour or so, I'll have enough cash to get myself something to eat.

Driver guy heads north on Second, crossing over Burnside into Portland’s version of Chinatown and then turns a few blocks later in order to head into a large, almost deserted, parking garage. The short trip was made in complete silence; I wasn’t feeling chatty and the two guys in the front seat weren’t really doing much other than scanning me in the mirrors and smiling to themselves. Yeah, it’s a bit disturbing, but I don’t really have enough experience in these matters to pinpoint exactly what it is that’s making my skin crawl.

The large SUV pulls into the multi-story parking garage and then drives up to the third floor. The only other cars in the garage trickle out by the time we pass the second floor. Up on the third level there is only one other vehicle - a sleek looking Mercedes Benz S-Class Coupe. It’s windows are also darkly tinted even to the windshield. From my place in the back of the SUV I can’t see if there is anyone inside, although from the way Driver Guy pulled into the parking spot next to the coupe I assume that this is the car of the ‘friend’ we’re supposed to meet.

As soon as the car I’m in is stopped, Passenger Guy starts to gets out. Without a word, he courteously opens up the rear door for me and indicates I should get out. I have to say I’m getting the weirdest vibes from this guy. I’m not at all reassured by the locale either. Nothing says ‘Psycho Killer’ like a deserted parking garage on a dark night. I start to look around me and survey any possible escape routes just in case. The lights in the parking structure are dim but at least it’s not completely dark. So I get out of the car and stand there between the two vehicles and wait to see what the fuck will happen next.

“Come on, pretty boy,” Passenger Guy says, as he firmly grabs my elbow and urges me closer to the other car. The window on the coupe rolls down but whoever is inside doesn’t move any closer to the opening so I still can’t see who’s looking at me. “What do you think, Terrance? Tall, slim, curly dark-auburn hair and pretty hazel eyes . . . He’s fresh - can’t have been on the streets more than a few weeks. Just how you like ‘em, right?” Creepy Passenger Guy starts extolling my virtues and I get the oddest flash of an image from an old television mini-series depicting slaves on the sale block.

Nobody says anything for several moments. I can feel the unseen man’s eyes pouring over my body, though. Just the thought of whoever is in that car actually touching me is making me feel ill. The waves of lust and avarice emanating out through the opened window disgust me. I do NOT like this situation any more. Fuck the money. I’m listening to my gut now and my gut tells me that I’m out of here! Without thinking about it even a second more, I yank my arm out of Passenger Guy’s grip.

I sprint off towards the closest stairwell, my eyes focused on the bright neon green ‘Exit’ Sign over the big metal door. My abrupt departure seems to have taken everyone else by surprise. I dart right past Driver Guy, barely eluding his outstretched arms. Passenger Guy is delayed in his pursuit of me by having to dodge around Driver Guy. I can hear the three men I’ve left behind yelling but I don’t stop to analyze what they’re saying. I only barely register the fact that Coupe Guy shouts something along the lines of, “Get him! Singapore will pay big bucks for this kid.” As soon as I’m clear of the cars, though, I ignore their shouts and don’t bother looking back to see who is following me or how far away they are. I was on my high school track team the last three years and I know that you never look back - it only slows you down. The only way to outpace the competition is to set your sights on the end of the race and not stop for anything. So that’s what I do.

Crashing through the exit door, I fly down the stairs, using the metal railing to vault over the divider and launch myself down a flight at a time rather than actually trying to make my feet meet each individual cement riser. I’m almost to the ground floor when I hear the door up on the third level clang shut indicating my pursuers are still after me. There’s a big metal gate over the exit on the ground floor and I lose precious time fumbling with the smallish knob trying to get through that impasse. When I finally get the door opened, though, I hit the pavement of the sidewalk outside at a dead sprint.

I can see that Waterfront Park is on my left - a large open space with very few hiding places. Instead, I opt to head to the right which takes me deeper into downtown and the relatively narrow streets and alleys of Chinatown. It’s the only hope I have. I know that I can’t outrun these guys forever. I need to find somewhere safe, hunker down and hide.

I dodge between the mailbox and a newspaper vending box. I clip my shoulder as I sprint past the big green solar-powered parking meter ticket machine. I make it all the way to the corner of the block before I hear the noise of a large vehicle engine gunning behind me. Without thought, I quickly dodge into the closest opening I see, which turns out to be no more than a narrow walkway between the main street and the back alley. In the alley, I double back towards the east and keep running. I come out back on Second and head north towards a crowded block full of stores, chinese food restaurants and unknown little offices. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around who I could ask for help so I just keep running.

Just as I reach the end of the block I see the big black SUV turning right onto Second Avenue two blocks ahead of me. Shit! I dart off into the alley on my left and wend my way through the dumpsters and recycling boxes that have been put out for tomorrow morning’s garbage pickup. Luckily, I seem to have found my way into a warren of small lanes and alleys behind the stores. The roadway here is far too narrow to allow the modern SUV passage. I’m safe as long as I stay in these small alleys. Well, at least until they get out of their cars and follow me on foot.

Unfortunately, that’s when my luck runs out. I bolt through a gate in a chain link fence that’s blocking off one end of the little alley I was traversing and find myself in a sort of dead end close. There’s nothing but brick walls on three sides and that fence across the opening. Behind me there’s noises coming from down the alley - I can’t tell if it’s the guys following me or just some innocent third party, but I’m too freaked out to wait around and find out. I try the only door I see in the small courtyard. It’s locked and pretty solid as far as I can tell. There’s no fucking way out of here.

With no escape, all I can do is try to find a hiding place. At the rear of the close, there’s a huge metal dumpster. I manage to cram my body into the narrow gap between the big metal box and the damp brick wall behind it. With the toe of my shoe I hook the edge of a wooden pallet and pull it towards me and prop it up on its edge to help further obscure the opening to my hidey hole.

Then I just sit and wait. There’s not much else I can do right at the moment. I just wait and try to catch my breath. I try not to inhale the stench of the rotting food waste that’s overflowing the dumpster I’m hiding behind. I’m no longer hungry thanks to the nauseating odors that surround me so it’s easy to ignore my empty stomach. I try not to think about the rain dripping through the hole in the rain gutter right over my head and pattering down the back of my shirt. I ignore the sounds of vermin shuffling through the refuse in the dumpster and pattering on their tiny obscene little feet around the the dark edges of the close. I just sit and wait and hope that the men won’t find me.

And in my mind, I’m silently screaming. I’m begging for someone to save me. I’m railing against my horrible life and my lousy luck and my stupid cow of a mother. I don’t make a single sound out loud. But inside I’m wailing at my fate and begging someone - anyone - to listen. To find me. To save me. Please save me.

Chapter 2 - Jesden.

So I'm staring at the sketch I made of a stranger in the park this afternoon and jerking off for the third time when I hear the intercom squawk and Martha's voice telling me that dinner is ready whenever I choose to come down. Hmm, dinner or another orgasm? That's really a no brainer. Of course I'm going to ignore the housekeeper and keep on stroking my cock. I'm so close as it is, it shouldn't take too long.

I focus my attention back onto the drawing of my latest fantasy man, squeeze a bit tighter around the length of my cock and speed up my pace. There's already plenty of lube on both my hand and my dick and my fist glides smoothly up the length of my shaft. The tip is a dark plum shade now, proof that I'm not far away from my release. As my hand nears the head of my penis I twist it around with a quick little jerk that catches on the fluted edge just enough to cause a jolt of extra electricity which echoes through my synapses. In my mind I'm imagining that little twist and jolt are caused by the way my mystery man's lips suck at the tip as he blows me with his exquisitely talented mouth.

Shit! His sweet mouth is so perfect wrapped around my dick. In my mind I can see his crushed cranberry lips, now swollen from their labor, dripping spit as they wrap lovingly around my thick cock. He's looking up at me with smoldering dark gold and green eyes. As he sucks me off with his perfect lips, his hands are caressing my thighs, my balls, my ass. His long fingers brush against the puckered folds of my asshole causing my hips to twitch and jerk with each passage. I imagine that each jerking motion drives me deeper down his accepting throat. The images swirling around in my brain make the physical sensations even more intense. I want him so bad. It's like I can really feel him here with me. I want him. He wants me. The idea of him alone sparks the final fuse that sets my body on fire and I cum with streams of sticky white erupting all over my chest and stomach.

'Fuck! That was perfect! Shit, I shot a bucketful even if it was the third time this afternoon. Hmmmm. You, my little fantasy friend, are definitely a keeper. Now, if only you were real and not a product of my imagination combined with my good right hand . . .'

I blow a kiss towards my sketch and then have to hurry off to the bathroom to clean up. As indulgent as she is with me, Martha will give me hell if I'm too late getting down to dinner. It's probably for the best anyway. My dick is pretty sore after all the recent self-abuse. Better to give the old boy a bit of a rest for an hour or two.

"Jesden Tennyson, you get your skinny blond ass down here to supper, you hear me," Martha's voice spits through the intercom just as I'm pulling on a clean shirt. "Everything's getting cold and you know how annoyed that makes me. So get your hands out of your pants and get yourself down here right now or I'm coming up there myself."

I pause long enough to press the intercom button on the console next to the door. "I'm on my way, Martha. Don't get your knickers in a twist. And, by the way, my ass isn't at all skinny. It's rather nice and plump from all your excellent cooking. So just lay off the ass comments, please," I tease her right back.

I hear the ghost of Martha's laughter right before I release the intercom button, glad once again that my housekeeper, cook and sometimes babysitter is also my friend. At least I have one friend in this world who seems to care that I'm still alive. Well, I remind myself, there's also Hector, my driver - he's also more of a friend than an employee. And there's always Dahlia, who's been my friend since kindergarten, although we don't get a chance to talk much ever since her folks sent her off to that prep school in California. However, my towering popularity, as evidenced by these three friends, does little to make this huge house seem less empty.

Trying to rid myself of further lonely thoughts, I make my way down to the kitchen. Martha's got dinner for the two of us set up on the modest table in the corner. I hate to eat alone all the time, and she knows it. Thankfully she almost always takes time out of her duties to sit with me through dinner. Most days it's the closest I get to any feeling of family. And, seeing as it's February here in the Pacific Northwest, which means cold and rain and grey skies without let up for at least another four months, I doubt I'll see my real family any time in the near future.

Despite my lonely and somewhat gloomy surroundings, though, I guess I'm still an optimist at heart. I can usually shake off my brooding thoughts at least long enough to enjoy dinner with Martha. We've always got along swimmingly. And if I ever seem too swamped by loneliness or my inherently introverted nature, Martha is always there to tease me back to a semblance of humor.

She's also been the one constant in my life for longer than I can remember. My parents always made sure I never wanted for any material comforts, but they've never really been there for me emotionally. My father would rather be jaunting around the country 'seeing to business' while my mother shops, visits friends or vacations. As far back as I can remember it's been just me and my father's employees here in this big empty house. Most of those, however - the nannies and maids and tutors and whatnot - came and went, never staying more than a year or two at a time. Martha's really the only one who's stuck around.

"Now, Honeychild, what have you got planned for this evening," Martha asks as we finish our dinner a pleasant half hour or so after she called me to table. "If you want to go out, I know that Hector would be happy to drive you. You could maybe call up a friend and go to the movies or something. It's just too gloomy around here tonight, what with all this rain, to sit inside moping all by yourself. A handsome young thing like you, Jes, should get out more, you know."

"Nice try, Martha", I give her credit for caring about me at least. "But you know that: 1. I don't have any friends and, 2. I hate to go to the movies by myself. Besides, I'll be fine on my own tonight. I just spent all afternoon sketching in the park and I want to work on finishing up a couple of the drawings. I might even paint a little if I feel suitably inspired. So don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I know you've got plans with your sister tonight. Besides, now that I've turned seventeen I'm pretty sure I don't need a babysitter anymore. You go ahead and have fun and I'll be just fine."

With just a little bit more reassuring, I've got Martha convinced I'll be fine on my own for the evening. She heads out to meet her sister. I head back up to my apartments alone.

But, notwithstanding what I told Martha, I'm really not in the mood for drawing or painting. Instead I'm planning on wallowing in self-pity for the rest of the evening. With a heavy sigh I flop down onto my bed ready to start the pity party.

My floppage accidentally knocks over the large sketch pad with the image of my latest fantasy man. I can't have that. His beautiful face is the only company I'll have tonight so I can hardly leave him hidden in the bed clothes like that. I promptly prop him back up so I can admire everything about the pretty boy I captured on paper.

Yes, the young man I'd drawn was practically perfect in every way. When I'd seen him dozing on the park bench that afternoon I'd felt compelled to draw him. He was young - probably around my own age but maybe older, it was hard to tell - tall and slim, but not at all gangly despite his height. He had the kind of build you see on long distance runners or swimmers, with those long ropy muscles that are strong but never bulky. His hair was long and a bit shaggy, the dark auburn curls catching even the scarce Oregon sunlight in order to show off the brighter copper strands. I was sitting too far away from him at the time to really see his eyes, but I imagined they were also dark. When he leaned back and let his eyes close I could tell how long and thick his lashes were even from a distance. And those lips - shit, those lips just made for kissing - were a dark, luscious red that reminded me of the red cranberry jelly Martha always served at the holidays. Like I said, he was fucking perfect. And a perfect foil to my own short stature and fair skin. We would look so great together. If only . . .

Someday I might even manage to find a real man like that. Someone that would be more than just a fantasy. Someone I could actually touch and kiss. Some gorgeous, tall, dark-haired man who'd romantically sweep me off my feet and instantly declare how passionately in love with me he was. We would then fall into bed together where the dark stranger would claim my body and relieve me of my virginity. Then we will inevitably live happily ever after with a huge house full of children and I will never ever feel lonely again.

Yeah. Someday. Maybe. If I ever get up the courage to tell my parents I'm gay. Or get the balls to go out and actually meet someone. The only problem with my little fantasy is that I'm a fucking coward. I'm way too scared of my formidable father to dare tell him his only son is a fag - he'd be even more disappointed in me than he already is. Oh, and I'm also way too chicken shit to talk to any guy I might find attractive. All I can ever manage is to draw them from a distance of not less than ten meters. I figure that there's really no point in coming out to my family until I figure out how to do something about it first.

Which probably explains why I'm spending another night lying here alone on my bed jerking off again to the picture of a boy I'll never have the courage to meet. Although, if I could ever find the guts to approach anyone, I think it would be this guy. The one I'd seen earlier today. I probably just imagined it, but there seemed like there was some connection between us. I could barely tear my eyes away from him. He was so . . . compelling. Of course, I doubt he even knew I was there drawing him. He looked preoccupied and more than a little bit sad.

But, yeah, I just know he could be the one. The one who needs me as much as I need him. And I so fucking need him right now. Tonight. Here in my bed. Touching me. Making me his. Touching me everywhere. I just wish this man, boy, whatever, could really be mine.

And as I'm lying here tonight, this time the fantasy feels so real. The young man in my drawing feels real too. Is it something in the air tonight? In me? It's like the whole perfect ending I've been dreaming of all my life is just waiting out there for me to grab ahold of it. All I have to do is open myself up and it will happen for me. And the man I've been waiting for is also waiting for me just out of sight but if I listen hard enough - with my heart as well as my ears - I'll find him.

So I try it. I take several deep cleansing breaths, lie flat on my back with my arms open wide and simply wait, listening to the night with my whole soul. I'm just drifting. Open. Waiting. Listening.

*AAAAAAAHHHHUNHUNHUNHUNNNNN!!!*

My brain seems to almost explode with the pain-filled wail that echoes inside my skull. I’ve never felt or heard that much anguish. I’m almost paralysed by the sheer weight of need encompassed by that singular cry.

'What the fuck?'

I really DIDN'T expect to actually hear anything. It was just me being my silly seventeen year old romantic idiot self. I must have been imagining things, right?

*PLEASE! Somebody! Anybody! Please don't  let THIS happen! Please! Just stop them! Can't I get even just one fucking little break in my overwhelmingly crappy life, huh? Just one good thing? Just one? Isn't there ANYONE out there who gives a tiny fucking piece of crap about me? Is anyone at all even listening? If you're out there, now would be the perfect time to prove you exist. Find me. Save me. Please!*

The words keep pummeling me. I'm NOT just imagining things here, people. I couldn't possibly be imagining that much terror or pain. I'm actually hearing these words. These words that are seemingly being shouted directly into my brain without involving my ears at all. And somehow I can feel the presence of the person behind the words. This is real. He needs me.

*I'm here. I hear you* I tentatively think the words back at the presence I can feel calling to me. I have no idea if he can hear my reply but I put all my will behind the thoughts I'm sending, hoping it's enough. *Who are you? Where are you? How can I help you?*

*Shit!* There's a sense of sobbing laughter behind the words now. *I'm fucking hearing things now too? As if my life wasn't bad enough. Perfect time for a complete mental breakdown. Fuck! Is that them . . .* The thoughts I'm hearing die out amid a fresh burst of panic.

*You're not crazy* I think back at him, trying to impart a sense of calm into my thoughts. I try not to think about the impossibility of what's happening and focus only on the frightened person I'm trying to help. *I'm here. I want to help you. Just tell me what to do.*

*What? . . . W-w-who?* Behind the words I'm now also getting a hazy impression of dark, damp, cold, hard surroundings. It's like an image projected against the inside of my eyelids. It adds to the sensations of fear I'm getting.

*My name is Jesden. I don't know what or how this is happening, but I CAN hear you. Who are you? How can I help?* I hope that my thoughts are projected in a way that will reassure him. I need to find out more if I really am going to help him.

*Ryan . . . I'm - my name's Ryan . . . There's three men . . . I'm hiding from them, but I think they're coming for me still. I can hear someone down the street.* His thoughts are disjointed, accompanied by a flood of fear.

*Good, Ryan. That's good. Now tell me where you are, okay*

*I'm . . . I'm . . . Fuck! I don't know where I am. Downtown somewhere. I was running. Trying to get away . . . Somewhere in Chinatown, maybe? Fuck!*

'Chinatown? Like in San Francisco or something? Shit! He might as well be IN China. How the hell can I help this guy from Portland, Oregon.'

*I'm in an alley. It's about two blocks from Waterfront Park.* Waterfront Park - that's the park I was sketching in earlier today. Does that mean he's here in Portland? I didn't even know we had a Chinatown here. I make a mental note for future reference. *I ran the opposite way from the park. There wasn't anywhere to hide out there . . . * Ryan's thoughts seem to be slowing gradually and they're becoming a little more coherent but I can feel the edge of panic still hovering behind the words. *Please help me. Please . . .*

'Yeah, so what exactly is the protocol for a situation like this? Do I call the police? And, if so, what would I tell them? I heard somebody calling to me in my thoughts while I was lying in bed masturbating. I don't know who he is or exactly where he is either but I know he needs help. And then what? I smile while they tote ME off to the looney bin and Ryan's still left out there hiding in the rain from some anonymous bad guys? That doesn't sound like it's going to help much.'

Fuck it all - there's only one thing I can do. *I'm coming to get you, Ryan. Stay where you are and keep hidden. I can be there in about ten minutes. Just hold on, okay!*

"Hector! Get the car! It's an emergency," I scream into the intercom while I'm pulling on the first pair of pants I find. "I'll meet you in front in thirty seconds. We have to hurry!"

•••••••••••••••••••

Chapter 3 - Ryan.

At least the fact that I’m going completely ape shit crazy is kinda almost distracting me from the fact that I’m currently being hunted by three guys who want to sell me to someone or something in Singapore. That’s good, right? Cause if you’re going to start hearing voices it might as well be entertaining.

*I'm coming to get you, Ryan. Stay where you are and keep hidden. I can be there in about ten minutes. Just hold on, okay!* The voice in my head announces and in spite of the fact that I KNOW it’s impossible and I’m just imagining all this, I still feel reassured.

At least I’m reassured up until I again hear sounds coming from a few blocks down the alley. I can hear something large and metal being moved around - probably another dumpster. From the sound alone I can’t tell exactly what’s going on or how far away they are, and I’m too freaking scared to look and see. There’s shouting too, which doesn’t bode well for me, I don’t think. If it's those fucking goons still looking for me, then they’re getting far too close for comfort.

*Hurry!* I scream out to the imaginary friend in my head since I’ve got no other options for rescue. *I think I hear them. They’re getting closer.*

*We’re on our way, Ryan. Just keep talking so I know you’re okay. Tell me about the men looking for you.*

*Talking? Yeah, right! Whatever the fuck this shit is, it sure isn't 'talking'.*

*You know what I mean,* the voice sounds exasperated by me but in a teasing way that feels friendly. *Besides, it sounds better than telling you to keep THINKING at me.*

*This is so fucking insane! You know that, right? If I actually had enough money to buy drugs, I'd be thinking this is one really bad trip right about now. Of course, if I had enough money to buy drugs - or anything else for that matter - then I wouldn't be in this shithole right now and I probably wouldn't have had a complete psychotic break in the first place.* I think I hear the voice in my head laughing at this point - which, remarkably enough, doesn't freak me out any more than I already am.

*We're almost there, Ryan. We just turned north off of Burnside onto Second Avenue. Can you help me? Where do we go now?* The voice announces and I feel hopeful in spite of the fact that my rational mind knows it's all bunk. *Ryan, please, tell me how to find you.*

*I don't KNOW how to find me! I don't even fucking know where I am. How the hell am I supposed to tell you where to find me if I don't know myself? Can't you just use your magic mental powers and teleport me outta here or something?* In my frustration I'm practically screaming back at the voice - albeit silently as this entire whacked out conversation is taking place all in my mind.

Again I get the feeling that the voice is amused by my thoughts - it's like I can sense his laughter even though I can't hear it. *Okay, okay. Just calm down. When you scream at me like that it feels like my brain is about to explode out my ears. I can hear you just fine without you yelling, alright . . . Now, let's think about this and figure out how I'm going to locate you without driving up and down the streets hollering your name and tipping off these guys who are looking for you.* I gotta at least give my imaginary friend points for not giving up.

While the voice is thinking, I'm jolted back to the reality of my situation by the sound of a large vehicle engine approaching as it drives slowly down the cross street at the end of the block. I don't dare look out from my hiding spot to make sure, but it certainly sounds like a big SUV engine. When a beam of bright light sweeps over the close, lingering on my corner and the dumpster I'm huddling behind for several moments, I'm sure it's them. I don't even breath until the spotlight or flashlight or whatever it is moves on and I hear the car driving away.

*T-t-they're here* I whisper the thought to my voice friend, afraid even loud thoughts will give me away. *The car . . . I heard the car. The light . . . They're looking for me.*

*Shit! Just . . . Just don't panic.* The voice tries to be comforting but I'm still fucking shaking back here in my stinking hidey hole. *I'm close, Ryan. I know I'm close. It's like I can almost feel you nearby. I just can't pinpoint where . . . Maybe, could you try and send me a picture? You know, a mental image of where you are so I can see it? That might help.*

The only image that pops into my mind is the solid dark blue slab of metal - the back wall of the dumpster box - pressed tightly against my right shoulder and the hard brick wall on my left with the wooden slats from the pallet covering the small gap between the two in front of me.

*Wow! That's amazing! I can totally see it.* The voice sounds excited and I feel slightly encouraged. *But, I need more. A bigger picture. Not just where you're hiding but the whole alley. Can you show me that?*

I take a deep breath and hold it. Then, focusing all my energy on listening to the sounds around me - hearing with my ears and not with my brain like I've been doing for the past however many minutes - I carefully examine what I can hear in the alley around me. The only noise is that obscene twitchy shuffling still going on somewhere inside the dumpster where the local vermin are enjoying their supper in total disregard of my precarious situation. Other than that, it's completely silent.

Hoping that I'm not giving myself away, I cautiously stand up so that I can peek over the top of the dumpster. My ears were correct - the alley is deserted. I scan the area quickly, trying to mentally record the image and at the same time projecting it out for my friendly voice to pick up if he can. Not that I actually believe any of this shit yet, but it can't hurt, can it?

*Excellent! This is so cool. I can see it exactly. It's like I'm looking through your eyes. What a trip!* The voice sounds a bit juvenile - so enthusiastic over some parlor trick he's just learned - I can't help doubting that THIS dweeb is the one who's gonna help me?

But before I can make a snarky demeaning comment that will hopefully redirect the voice's focus back onto matters that matter, I'm thrown by the sight of my old nemesis, the big black SUV, prowling slowly down the street about two blocks further down the alley. They've still got that big spotlight and Passenger Guy is using it to look into the shadows and crannies as they drive by. Shit! Why don't they just give up already? How long are they going to waste on looking for me. There's gotta be some other street kid that 'Singapore' would be just as happy with as he would be with me?

*Shit! Is that them? That black Chevy SUV?* I must have still been projecting because it sounds like the voice saw my mental image of the guys searching for me. *YES! I see them! The car just pulled out right in front of where we're parked. I know exactly where you are now! Hold on another minute. We're just around the corner.*

Within seconds I see a sleek silver limo turning the corner and pulling up in front of the chain link fence stretched across the alley entrance. The door starts to open before the vehicle has even stopped. Next thing I know, the most beautiful boy I've ever seen jumps out of the open door and starts running towards me.

The street light on the corner is shining down on his blond hair and the moisture in the air acts like thousands of tiny prisms creating a halo effect around his face. He's smiling at me - this huge assed grin showing all his brilliant white teeth - his cheeks crinkling up with evident joy at the mere sight of me. Between that smile and his sparkling big blue eyes, it feels like a ray of sunshine has just lit up the entire area at my end of the alley.

"Ryan! Come on! Let's get the fuck out of here before they come back!" The vision calls to me and waves at me to join him but I just stand there and stare like a complete retard.

*It's okay, Ryan. It's me. I'm going to take you where you'll be safe.* I hear the words spoken aloud at the same time I 'hear' them in my mind.

"Y-Y-You're . . . You're real?" I hear myself stuttering and barely recognize my own voice, amazed as I am at seeing the owner of THE voice alive and in the flesh.

He nods and smiles even more - as if that were even possible - holding his hand out to me as he takes a few steps closer. "Yeah. At least I think I'm real. You, on the other hand, are my own personal fantasy come to life, which means you're the one who can't be real, not me."

"Jes! Get your friend and let's go! This is not a neighborhood I want to be hanging out in all night long," Both the vision and myself are startled by the harsh Latino-accented voice coming through the open window of the limo and interrupting our little moment.

"Hector's right. We stand out down here like a sore thumb with this big silver boat. If we don't get caught by your bad guys first, we'll probably get mugged. Come on and let's get the fuck out of here!"

The vision moves swiftly towards my hidey hole and deftly shoves the wooden pallet aside. He holds out his hand to me. I grab it and let him tow me out from behind the dumpster. I feel like I have no volition of my own at all. I just follow him as he leads me back to the waiting limo, holds the door for me as I slide inside and then climbs in after me.

The light inside the car compared to the almost complete dark of the alley is ridiculously bright and causes me to blink repeatedly. The blond vision sitting next to me reaches up and flips off the overhead light. His other hand is still clasped around my own. It feels so warm. The whole car is warm. And clean. It even has that new car, clean smell. Which, as soon as I notice it, makes me conscious of just how badly I myself smell. I try to scoot away from the blond but he just squeezes my hand a little tighter and refuses to let me move.

The tinted glass panel between the rear cabin and the driver's seat slides about halfway down. "Am I taking you two back to the house?" the same Latino voice I heard before asks.

"Good question, Hector," the nearby blond replies, turning to me as he speaks. "I guess I assumed I'd take you back to my house, Ryan, but if there's someplace else you'd rather go, we could drop you off wherever you want."

"I . . . T-T-There's no place . . ." I've finally warmed up enough to feel how cold I am and my teeth are now chattering so much I can barely talk.

"Shit! You're freezing cold and wet through. You're probably also in shock," the blond states, pointing out what I think is obvious. "Better go straight to the house after all, Hector. We'll figure out what to do later after Ryan's feeling better."

"Of course, Mr. Jes. I also took the liberty of calling ahead to Ms. Martha. She's getting something ready for you boys to eat as we speak," the driver politely informs the blond and then the privacy panel rolls back up into place.

"I'm sorry I don't have a dry jacket or a blanket or anything for you in the car," my blond vision says to me after watching me shiver in silence for a minute or two more. "I just ran out of the house without thinking, you know. But we should be home any minute now and Martha will have some dry clothes for you and you can take a hot shower and then eat and I'm sure you'll feel much better," the optimistic little sprite enthuses as I sit and shiver pathetically.

His warm hand never leaves mine the entire ride and his eyes constantly rove over my body again and again as if to make sure I am still there and still solid. Meanwhile I feel like I'm floating. It's surreal sitting here in such warmth and luxury after being out on the cold damp streets for so long. And especially after the little adventure I just escaped from with Cornpop's help. Oh, and let's not forget the whole mind reading thing - that doesn't help make things feel any more real for me. But I'm not going to bother trying to think through all that shit right now. All I can do at the moment is float along in the warmth of the car while my mind drifts peacefully along.

I'm really not paying attention to time while I float along, so I couldn't tell you how long it takes before we're pulling up to the front door of some ostentatiously large mansion. I can't see all of it because of the darkness and the rain, but what I can see is more than enough. As the driver comes around to the right rear door and opens it for me and the blond, I find myself giggling uncontrollably at the absurdity of this entire night. Actually, I'm not just giggling, I'm laughing so hard I almost can't stand up on my own. The blond is clearly worried - he reaches out with his free hand as if to feel my forehead for a fever. That makes me snort even louder and I fall back against the side of the car, chortling away like a madman.

"Ryan? Ryan, what is it? Are you alright?" My blond vision keeps asking but I can't stop laughing long enough to answer.

By this time I'm laughing so hard that tears are streaming down my face. Although the laughing is starting to sound more like crying as time goes by. Pretty soon even I'm not sure what the hell is happening and whether I'm laughing or bawling my eyes out.

"Martha?" I hear the little blond's worried voice close by me.

"Shhhhh. Calm yourself, Child. You're gonna be just fine. Shhhhh." These few words said by a velvety smooth voice finally cut through my mania. I can feel big strong arms wrapping around me and holding me together while my tears and the shaking gradually subside. One big hand pats my cheek and I let my head relax against a billowing buxom chest while that firm kind hand gently strokes my hair. "That's my good boy. Your friend's going to be just fine, Jes. He's just had himself a bit of a scare is all. Let's take him inside and give him a few minutes alone to clean up and get himself together. He'll be better in no time."

Everyone around me seems to take this declaration as gospel so who am I to argue. Without further fuss I'm swept into the house and chivvied up a flight of stairs. When we come to a halt, I see I'm in the fanciest bathroom I've ever imagined. The floors and walls are covered with huge brown marble tile. The same color tile, in smaller squares, continues into the large walk-in, glass-walled shower enclosure that looks like it could handle three or four grown men at one time. All the fixtures are brushed stainless steel. The shower head itself is one of those monster sized devices that looks like it'll rain down gallons of water on you at any one time. Even the friggin toilet looks fancy - it's some new-fangled design that has a higher back, no obvious piping below the stool and, instead of a handle, there are two chrome buttons on the top. Seriously, these people must spend a LOT of time in their bathroom to care this much about how it looks.

I guess I'm standing here looking lost or something, because the perky little blond guy seems like he's afraid to leave. "Do you need anything else, Ryan?"

I really don't have any clue how to answer that. I'm so fucking tired I really can't think straight. Actually putting together a string of words into a sentence in order to answer the kid really feels like an insurmountable task right now.

"Jesden, come away and leave the poor boy alone for a bit," Martha's authoritative yet kindly voice orders, to my everlasting gratitude. "Ryan, sweetie, you get in that shower now and get warmed up. When you're done, just toss those wet clothes into the hamper here and put on these dry things," she puts a stack of folded clothes on the counter next to the sink. "I'll have some nice hot soup waiting for you when you're ready. Jes, honey, you can come help me in the kitchen."

The big matron hustles the reluctant blond out of the bathroom. I can hear them arguing over something as they walk back down the hall. I'm just so grateful to be alone for a few minutes that I could kiss Martha. Finally, without the little blond vision watching my every move, I feel like I can breath again. I can even function like an almost normal human.

And normal humans get to take wonderfully long hot showers, don't they? The idea of a shower in and of itself is almost orgasmic after all this time. I don't think I've ever looked forward to ANYTHING as much as I'm looking forward to peeling off these stinking, wet, dirty clothes and walking into that big inviting shower. If I wasn't so fucking cold still, I'd probably be hard just contemplating the idea of a shower.

'Yep! It's just as good as I thought it would be,' I'm thinking to myself two minutes later as the gloriously hot water begins to rain down on me from that gargantuan-sized shower head. 'Shit, this shower is nicer than most of the places I’ve lived in the last ten years. Maybe they'll let me live here, in the shower . . .'

Chapter 4 - Jesden.

'I still can't believe it's HIM! The guy from the park. The one I sketched and was drooling over all afternoon. And now he's in my house. In my shower, actually. Naked. He's in my house and naked and I think I'm going to hyperventilate if I don't stop thinking about him right now!'

"Jesden, Child, please sit down! Pacing like that isn't going to get the boy out here any faster. All it does is annoy me, and you know you don't want an annoyed housekeeper," Martha teases me, with good reason of course. "Instead of wearing a trench through the carpet, why don't you come over here and explain to me exactly what the hell happened to that boy tonight and how you got involved. I gotta tell you, Jes, I wasn't exactly happy when Hector called me and said you two had just 'rescued' some boy from down in Old Town and were bringing him here. What the heck were you thinking, Jes? How do you even know this boy?"

'Yeah, what exactly did happen? And how the fuck do I explain it all to Martha without sounding like I'm due for some serious psychotherapy? I wonder if I can put her off until after Ryan and I have had a chance to come up with some kind of cover story. Looking at her face, I'm going to say that's not going to happen. She's got that 'I'm waiting, son' look. Damn! Well, here goes nothing . . .'

Out of the corner of my eye I see the sketchbook I'd grabbed out of my room before Martha dragged me down here. It gives me an idea. I'll just tell her the truth - or as much of it as possible, at least.

"I met Ryan this afternoon at the park," I tell Martha and hold up the drawing I'd made of him as proof. "I don't really know him that well. But, he, um . . . He called me tonight and asked me to come get him. I think there were some guys hassling him - you know, following him and getting kind of aggressive - and he got a little freaked. So, I just had Hector drive me down there and we brought him back. He was too upset to really tell me everything that went on, but you could see for yourself how worked up he was. We'll just have to wait until he's ready to tell us the rest."

"Hmm. Well, I'm proud of you for helping someone out like that, Jes, even if he is a virtual stranger. You're a good boy. Always have been. But I think I'll reserve judgment about your new friend, Ryan, until we know a little bit more about him. Okay?" Martha cautions with that motherly air she uses on me all the time - the one I pretty much can never resist.

Thankfully, I'm saved from having to reply when our impromptu guest himself finally makes an appearance. Ryan looks much better now that he's showered and isn't wearing soaking wet clothing that make him seem like a drowned rat. In fact, he's looking damn good, if you ask me, even in a pair of sweatpants that are far too small for him and that overtight tee.

'Please, mom, can I keep him!'

"Hey," Ryan says and shrugs with one shoulder as he pads into the kitchen on bare feet. "Thanks for the dry clothes and the shower and all. I really appreciate it, Ma'am," he adds, directing his comments towards Martha.

"I'm sure you're welcome, Son," Martha doesn't correct his apparent misconception that she's the householder - that wouldn't be proper. "Now, pull yourself up one of those stools and you can start in on this soup I've got ready for you. That should warm you up from the inside as much as the shower warmed you on the outside. Hope you like clam chowder. It's always been one of Jes' favorites and I'm sure he'll join you in a bowl if I twist his arm a little."

"Of course I'll have a bowl. You know I can never say 'no' to your homemade chowder, Martha." I'm more than happy to pull up a second stool next to Ryan and take my own bowl from Martha's large brown hands. I take one spoonful and sigh. "It's as delicious as always." I add a handful of oyster crackers to my bowl and then push the serving bowl of crackers towards Ryan. He's already halfway through his own serving, but scoops out a few crackers to add to what's left. "I'm sorry we interrupted your night off, though, Martha. If you want to head back to your apartments now, I think I can handle everything from here."

"I don't mind staying a bit, Jesden," Martha-the-nosy-meddler replies.

"I've got this, Martha. Really. I insist that you go enjoy the rest of your evening." I don't often play the 'boss' card with Martha, but tonight I really don't need her butting in.

"Of course, Mr. Tennyson," Martha counters in her bitchiest servant voice. "Goodnight, Sir."

I just ignore her. I know from experience that Martha will have forgiven me by tomorrow morning. Provided I tell her everything I can find out about Ryan, that is. However, this time I may just have to disappoint her.

"So, um . . . This is your house, I take it?" Ryan asks as he scrapes the last spoonful of chowder out of his bowl.

"Yeah. Well, technically it's my parents house, I guess, but they're not here very often so . . ."

"Hector and Martha work for you, then. Like, you're their boss?" He clarifies.

"Yeah. But, they're my friends too. Martha's been more of a mother to me than my real mom. Like I said, my parents aren't around much. Most nights it's just me and Martha." Boy, does that make me sound like a colossal loser or what?  

Time to change the subject.

"So . . . You wanna talk about what happened to you tonight? I didn't really understand much of what you were projecting when you first called to me," Ryan didn't look all that happy to start with but he looks even more spooked when I make that reference to all the strange mental stuff. "I mean, who were those guys that were looking for you? Can you go home now or would it still be dangerous? I might be able to help if you feel like you can tell me more."

"Yeah, whatever . . ." Ryan looks at me strangely and then sags on the barstool where he's still sitting. He rubs his face with one hand then pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. "You know what, Kid, I really appreciate the way you pulled my ass out of the fire tonight and all, but you don't know me and you really DON'T want to know about all my shit. So, thanks again for the shower, the dinner and everything else, but I think I'll just grab my clothes and go. Okay?"

To be honest, I don't want him to go. Not this soon at any rate. But what the hell am I gonna do? Hold him hostage? Keep him here by force? If he wants to leave, I can't stop him.

"Fine. But why don't you just keep the sweats since your clothes are still wet. I'll call Hector and get him to bring the car around so he can take you home," I offer, trying not to let my disappointment show in my voice.

"Hahaha. Don't bother. Let Hector sleep. I can walk," Ryan seems highly amused by my offer to give him a ride for some reason.

"It's no bother. Besides, it's still raining out and you don't even have a proper jacket. Of course I wouldn’t let you walk home," I insist, confused by the almost angry look on Ryan's face as I repeat my offer.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Ryan huffs at me derisively. "I don't HAVE a home, Cornpop. I don't need a ride anywhere ‘cause I got no place to go other than back to the park where hopefully I can find a dry spot under some bush. Not everyone lives in a fucking palace, Kid. Fuck this! I'm outta here."

For a moment or two I'm too shocked to respond. I just really didn't see that coming. I mean, yeah, Ryan looked a little bedraggled and dirty, but I just assumed it was because of what happened to him tonight. When I was watching him earlier in the day at the park he didn't strike me as someone who was homeless. When I think of the term 'homeless' I picture some old grey-haired guy with rotting teeth and matted hair wearing a garbage bag and towing around a shopping cart full of junk. I never would have guessed this hot boy wearing normal clothes was homeless.

By the time I've wrapped my head around this new revelation, Ryan's already coming back down the stairs with his wet clothes balled up under one arm. His mouth is set in a straight line, giving away nothing of what he's feeling inside. Even his eyes look dead. He doesn't even look at me as he sidles past heading for the front door.

*Ryan . . . Don't . . . Don't go. Please stay.*

I didn't even think about it before the words appeared in my mind. It was like some basic instinct. I just thought the words and I knew he'd hear them. His body pulls up short and he sort of gasps as I send the thoughts towards him.

"You don't have to go," I see him hesitate then shake his head as if he's still going to say no. I press my case. "You've got nowhere else and It's still raining out. Besides, we've got like five empty guest rooms - I'm pretty sure any one of them is more comfortable than the ground under a bush in the park. Please, just stay."

"I really should . . ." He starts to protest yet again.

*You really should STAY. It's okay. At least for tonight. Please, Ryan.* I'm practically begging now, but it's okay because nobody but him can hear me, right? *Stay.*

As I watch, the invisible mask of indifference he was wearing melts just a little. It's just enough that I can clearly see his eyes. I get the barest glimpse of fear and longing hiding behind the jade green flecks that illuminate the hazel brown irises. My heart melts a bit in response and I silently vow to do whatever it takes to ease that pain so that I never have to see it again.

"Come on. You can have the room next to mine," I reach out and seize his larger hand and, before he can change his mind again, I lead him back towards the stairs.

•••••••••••

It's after one am. Ryan is safely tucked away for the night in the guest room next door and presumably asleep. I however am still too wired to sleep. I also can't stop thinking about the beautiful boy lying in the next room. Wishing he was here in MY bed. My mind busily coming up with all sorts of dirty things I could do to him if he were in my bed. Maybe even some dirty things he could do to me. Gaaaaahhhh!

Enough! Rather than lying in bed and driving myself crazy with lewd thoughts, I opt to get up and paint. At least if I have to be awake I'll be doing something semi-productive. Besides, I can keep on with the lewd thoughts even while I paint and then they'll become 'Art' instead of just wishful thinking.

Rolling out of bed, I pull on a pair of paint splattered old sweats and a grungy t-shirt. I throw open the French doors to my studio - well, what I like to call my studio, although it's really just an alcove off my room where I've set up an easel and a few other supplies. There's already a prepared canvas on the easel just waiting for me to find some inspiration. It's been there, staring blankly at me for days, but you never really know when inspiration will strike. That's why I almost always keep at least one canvas on hand at all times. It's just good to be ready for when the mood strikes. Like tonight, when my inspiration, in the person of a charming dark-haired boy with soulful eyes, just turns up out of nowhere, crying out to me from the darkness. Now that's what I call inspiring!

With my palette loaded up with several shades of greens, golds and browns, and my favorite sable-haired brush in my hand, I literally attack the blank canvas. When I get like this I usually lose track of everything around me. I have no attention to spare for anything besides my art. Time means nothing. All I see are the swirls of paint that are coalescing in front of my eyes.

And I probably would have been there all night if it weren't for the fact that now I have this weird new connection to the subject of my painting. It feels like there's some invisible tether tying me to the boy sleeping in the room on the other side of the wall. I can feel his presence. I can sense him there, feel him breathing, almost see the images flitting through his dreams. Even amid my usual artistic trance, I feel like I need to keep track of him now that we're connected like we are. So, even while I'm painting, I keep peeking into his mind every so often, just checking to make sure . . . Of what, I've got no idea, but I'm still compelled by something . . .

Which is why I feel it almost immediately when his dreams turn darker. The amorphous images start to get more defined. The shadow shapes become more threatening. I sense his growing fear. He's remembering humiliation, pain and loss. Without actually being able to hear him through the solidly built walls, I know he's crying out in his sleep.

I toss aside my brush without a moment's hesitation. A few quick strides take me to the guest room door. I open it a crack. It's enough so that I can now hear Ryan whimpering in his sleep. And, before I know it, I'm crawling into bed with him, wrapping my arms protectively around his broad shoulders and 'sshhhing' away his nightmares.

*Sssh. You're okay. You're safe here, Ryan. I'll keep you safe. Hush.* I propel the most reassuring thoughts I can towards him and breath easier as soon as I feel his body relaxing against mine.

'Shit! This thing - this new mental ability - seems to get easier and easier. And when I'm touching him the way I am now, it feels so right that it's almost easier than talking aloud. It's like it's become pure instinct. I barely have to think about it before I send out whatever message I want to convey. What the hell is this? This has GOT to be the most bizarre experience ever! Even if it does feel so damn right.'

Ryan's dreams have calmed now. I sense he's moved back into a deeper sleep state. I really should go back to my painting. Or at least back to my own bed . . . I really should . . . Really . . .

If only it didn't feel so fucking good lying here next to him! I'm sort of curled around Ryan's back right now. His head is lying propped up on my arm. If I bend my neck just a bit I can bury my nose in his hair. He smells so good - warm, sleepy, musky male with a hint of my favorite ‘Axe’ body wash.

The more I breathe him in, the less I'm inclined to leave. In fact, I want even more. I can't help it - Ryan is the embodiment of every single sexual fantasy I've ever had. I really can't stop myself from sliding down under the covers even more until I feel the length of his back touching me along every centimeter of my chest and stomach.

At this point, to make matters worse - or better, depending on your perspective - Ryan shifts in his sleep and wriggles back so that he's even more closely snuggled up against my chest. His hand grasps my forearm and our legs become twined together. His ass presses tight into my groin. I'm thankful that he's so deeply asleep that my resulting groan doesn't wake him.

I'm now trapped and don't have the option to leave anymore, which is just fine with me. I'm perfectly happy lying here with the instant boner I'm now sporting pressed into the hard muscles of Ryan's glutes. Figuring that I might as well make myself comfortable, I drape my left arm over Ryan's torso. Every possible part of me is now touching a part of him. It's like fucking nirvana!

'So, this is what it's like sleeping with another man? Well, of course, I'm not actually sleeping. I'm too fucking turned on to sleep. It feels pretty fantastic though. I love the feel of his skin touching mine. I love his smell. I love his ass pressed against me. I love having my dick pressed against his ass. Shit, I think I could just about cum from simply lying here like this. Now what the fuck do I do?'

While my brain is busy mulling over what I SHOULD do, my body has already started doing what it wants. Completely of their own volition, I find my hips are now gently rocking so that my cock keeps bumping lightly against my sleeping companion's backside. My idle left hand - the one draped over Ryan's body - has begun tracing little patterns across his smooth bare chest. I even catch my lips pressed up against the skin on the back of his neck, and without explicit permission they're doling out tiny, barely-there kisses amidst the silky hair at his nape.

Apparently self-control isn't really one of my stronger traits. Of course self-control, and even self-respect, are highly over rated. Which probably explains why I continue frotting against the unconscious form of my guest despite the indignity of it all. Let's face it, I'm a horny seventeen year old gay boy - what do I know about dignity? If it involves my dick and feels good, dignity be damned!

I'm so into my shameful pleasures by this time that I don't even notice when the unwitting object of my lustful advances begins to stir. It isn't until Ryan rolls away out of my arms and looks back at me with an insolent smirk that I realize he's awake. Damn! I'm blushing so hard that my cheeks feel like they're on fire. Is there a word stronger than 'embarrassment', ‘cause that's what I'm feeling right about now.

Strangely enough, though, Ryan doesn't seem all that put off by my unsolicited amorousness. He's actually smiling at me and moving closer again. Before I know it, Ryan's got his arms wrapped around me and he's pressing his hips forward into mine. The sensation of our two dicks grinding together, even through the material of our clothing, is exquisite. I moan. He moans. And behind that very vocal sound of his approval, I hear a mental echo of a moan. I'm not sure he even realizes that he's doing it, but I'm definitely hearing his thoughts again.

*Mmmmm. Feels good. So, I wonder if this is a private affair or can anyone join in?*

I feel the humor in the thoughts directed at me even through the lust-filled haze with which they're delivered. This connection we have is already so strong that I can feel not only his words but also his emotions. They're so powerful that they're virtually contagious. As if I wasn't already as horny as a Rhino, now I'm overcome by the lust he's projecting as well. I'm probably projecting the same thing back at him, too. Together we're just one big roiling ball of uncontrollable desire ready to explode.

The paint spattered clothing I was wearing seems to disappear - probably burned off by the heat of our mutual lust. Ryan's hand wraps itself around both our dicks and starts to glide up and down. I reach down and join my hand to his. Together, our hands coated with the pre-cum that's copiously dripping from both of us, we stroke and squeeze as our cocks rub together.

At the same time, I lean forward and find his sweet mouth. He seems to have the exact same idea I had, as his lips instantly crash into mine. The kiss is passionate and hard. Our teeth click together, his tongue is thrust deep into me and I can't pull away even to breathe.

That's when something extraordinary happens. Something inside my brain clicks. Some synapse makes a new connection. Blood starts flowing to a group of neurons that up till now have sat idle. Inactive regions of my brain light up. And the tentative new connection between Ryan and I suddenly explodes wide open, flooding my senses.

Whereas before we were exchanging isolated thoughts, words, ideas, even a few feelings, now I feel everything. I can feel HIS pleasure as our joined hands glide across the sensitive skin at the tip of his dick. The tingle in his gut as his climax starts to build is mirrored in my own. I'm tasting what he's tasting as we kiss. I can feel how much he enjoys the way my hand drifts across the taut skin of his nipples. It's like our minds are joined and every ounce of pleasure he feels is now my pleasure too. Our kiss is broken and I hear him gasp loudly. Looking into his eyes, I know he's feeling all of it too.

Our orgasms hit at the same time. It's absolutely sublime; my pleasure and his pleasure combined and reflecting back at each of us. Never before has a lowly mutual hand job felt like THIS. I'm gasping, desperate for breath, on the verge of passing out. I feel the blood pulsing through my very veins. And the only thing keeping me still anchored to the Earth is the weight of Ryan's hand resting on my hip.

*Fuck, Cornpop! What the hell have you done to me?*