TRIPPING 3
by Maz

Xander had been focused on the object in his mouth for so long and with such concentration, that he hardly registered the force that pulled the rest of his body into a new position. He was a mouth. Legs and torso hardly existed in his consciousness. Even when something pushed into his ass, he only made mild protest before dismissing the sensation as irrelevant, if mildly pleasant in a weird sort of a way.

The sudden burst of electric pleasure took him completely by surprise, although he managed to keep his mouth around his toy. Another burst of sensation dragged his mind back to awareness of four limbs and a body, then spiralled in to concentrate on the incredible feeling in his ass. The world tipped and turned white as he became a scream, a scream with a cock that rubbed against a firm, smooth surface and held a glowing ember of heated excitement in his core. The world tipped again, shifting around him and for a moment he lost gravity as his body was jerked away from him.

When vision returned, he found his face pressed into the satin bedspread and his arms pinned at his back. Consciousness now was centred on the feeling of being impaled and the grip on his hip. As the white light obliterated vision, he managed to get his arms free and under his shoulders. He pushed up, raising his butt into the source of the pleasure. Hands gripped both his hips, holding him immobile as the thrusts continued, faster and harder. The dolls on the chest of drawers against the wall laughed. The one without a blindfold winked at him. They danced in circles until they created a rainbow spiral that opened out wider and wider, swirling reds and greens, oranges and purples and clear, clear blue, like a summer sky. Pleasure burst through him and he distantly heard his own voice scream and laugh and beg for more. The colours swirled faster and pressed on him, through him, into him, building pressure until he knew that he couldn't hold it together any more. He exploded and the white light came back as all his muscles clenched. As a thousand separate Xander bits flew outwards into nothingness, he felt a flood of liquid calm the storm.

The world snapped back into place.

He was in a sailboat gently rocking on the glassy ocean. The horizon stretched forever and the sun was a heavy weight on his back.

A rough, sultry voice insinuated itself into his ear. "I could take you anywhere right now," it said. "You're as high as a kite. I could plunge you into hell with a few well-chosen words, or I could lift you into heaven. Which will it be? Your worst nightmare come alive or a trip through the fantasy of your choice? Or maybe my choice.

"You're helpless. I could conjure up the images and you would build them into reality and live them. What time did you drop the acid?"

The sailboat was gone. He was lying on a bed. Dark shadows threatened at the edges of his vision and panic hovered over there with them.

"What time did you drop the acid?" the voice asked again, a bit sterner now. The shadows pressed closer. Xander struggled to make sense of it all, calling on his memories and long neglected reason to answer the question, in hope it would hold the shadows at bay.

"Devon...," he said.

The voice snorted behind him. "No," it said, slowly and carefully. "California. I doubt you even know what Devon's like. Do you?"

This was a question he could answer. "Tall, slim, cock tastes like sugar," he said.

A second snort. "Bloody stupid names you Yanks give your children," the voice remarked. "So what time did Devon give you the acid?"

Xander thought about that and memory made a tentative comeback. "We went to his apartment in the afternoon. They were practising for the gig, then Devon handed out the tabs." He was proud of himself for remembering the word Devon had used.

The voice was less impressed. "Tabs?" it asked. "And people say I'm stuck in the Eighties. What time?" it demanded again.

The shadows were creeping to the edge of the bed, threatening to pull him under, as he tried to reason them away.

"Come on, tell me. I could push you into the worst trip of your life, if I wanted to. What time?"

Then it was there - the clock above Devon's head as he handed Xander the innocuous square of paper. "5 o'clock." He gasped as the shadows reached out tendrils to pull him under.

A hand reached over his shoulder and picked up his arm, tilting his wrist so he could see the watch. It read ten past eleven.

"Hmm," said the voice, as his arm was dropped and the hand withdrew. "You could be tripping for another couple'a hours then, 'fore you're cooked. 'Less I burn it outta your system quicker. Don't really want a screaming, dribbling idiot on my hands for hours. So, I guess this is your lucky day."

The pressure on his back lightened slightly, while the pressure on, and in, his ass began to thrust again, gently.

"Looks like you're going to heaven for a while, Pet." The voice was soothing, crooning, sending luscious shivers down his spine as pleasure began to tingle in his ass. The shadows withdrew and he relaxed.

"You're in a garden. See the flowers. See the fountain. Feel the warmth of the sun on your back." The voice droned on and all weight and sensation was gone. His ass felt empty.

And Xander was there - lying on a silk cushion in a courtyard garden, the sun high overhead. He wriggled to get his arms free of his shirt, so he could pull it off and luxuriate in the feel of silk against his chest. He was dimly aware of a voice in the distance, but hardly noticed it as he took in the detail of the mosaic paving. He knew this place. It was his favourite fantasy place, conjured many times on the verge of sleep. But this was *so* much better. So much more real. He lay his head down on his crossed arms and relaxed, as a warm breeze played over his back. There had been weight on his back earlier but it was gone now and he was comfortable and warm and sated. 

Hands rubbed up the back of his calves and he tilted his rear up slightly in invitation. "Master?" he whispered.

The hands stopped moving for a moment, before resuming their gentle pressure up to the back of his knees and on to his thighs. "What, Boy?" A voice asked. And it was much sexier than any voice he had created here before.

"Your slave is waiting for you," he said. The words coming easily from many previous rehearsals alone in his bed. The small part of his brain that always knew this was a fantasy questioned the word 'boy', but the rest of him was overwhelmed and swallowed by the beauty of the voice.

"Tell me what you want," the voice commanded.

"To serve you, Master. Whatever you want, Master. Please, let your slave serve you."

He could feel his cock growing under him as the voice insinuated itself into his brain. "I know what you want. An' luckily for you, I don't mind giving it to you."

A ripping sound behind him was momentarily disconcerting, causing the garden to shimmer slightly. Then strong hands took his wrists and tied them together in front of him with a strip of his own shirt.

"I am your Master," said the voice. "I can do what I want with you."

"Yes, Master."

"And right now I want to do this."

He felt something pushing at his asshole and then the feeling of stretching and fullness and a weight settled on his back as he was filled. This was fantastic. It had never been so true before. And the voice was so much more. It said things he didn't expect and it felt so real - the feeling in his ass. A tiny part of his mind reminded him he was tripping and he decided that Devon was probably the best friend he had ever had. Then thought went away completely in face of what physical sensation did to his overheated brain.

TRIPPING 4