Stories · What He Wants

What He Wants Part 1

To say I was miserable was putting it lightly.

There I was, approaching fifty. I was balding, carrying several spare tires, divorced, living in an unmemorable apartment and going everyday to a mediocre job I hated. Quite the piece of work.

To make matters worse, I had come to the realization that I was gay. Everything I had “known” was turned upside-down by the revelation—one that I was deathly afraid of acting upon. I shuffled out of the office every evening, wishing I had the courage to act upon the urges that I had been denying my whole adult life.

Then he started working at the office in Sales.

His name was Bryan, and he was everything I imagined as I lay in bed, jerking off by myself. He was young, handsome and athletic. He had that smile that the good salesmen had—the kind that made men and women both, gay and straight, just melt in his presence. Movie stars had that kind of smile.

Every night, I found myself lying in bed, my hand stroking my six-incher. I would imagine that he was stroking me to an erection. He would start to run his hands through what was left of my hair, building me up to a climax where I would explode, spraying my spunk across his smooth, tanned chest.

At least, I imagined that climax. I would quickly realize that my middle-aged plumbing wasn’t capable of the muzzle velocity it once provided. Instead of a geyser of semen exploding from my cock, I was lucky to get my hands wet and sticky.

Who was I fooling? Bryan, if he turned out to be gay, would be able to bed any guy he wanted. What would he want with a middle-aged sad sack like me when he could have any stud in town?

Saturdays are usually spent in search of antiques and other unique items. (I know… stereotypically gay, but I like that stuff, okay?)

This particular Saturday was gray and rainy, with a cold, stiff wind constantly blowing. I found myself in a part of town I’d never really gone to before. The area was just as gray as the skies overhead, with a run-down feel that had overtones of neglect and decay. The in-town subdivision was filled with lots of 1970s ranch houses, each with a cracked, decaying cement driveway leading up from a patched-up street that had seen better days. The bars on the windows hinted that this wasn’t the best of neighborhoods, having suffered the fate of many such areas: a flight to the suburbs.

The hand-drawn signs promising “ESTATE SALE” led to the brick ranch, nestled in amonst several massive oak trees. Inside, the house was neat as pin. Obviously, the late owner had taken pride in maintaining the property, even as the rest of the neighborhood began it’s downward slide. The furnishings were all marked with small paper tags, each with a price. Most of it, while in good condition, wasn’t worth having. What was, I already had something similar. The owner and I had similar tastes—he just had a lower budget.

I was looking at a Eames recliner (a reproduction, but a pretty good one) when I noticed it. As a painting, it wasn’t much to look at. It was actually about the quality of a painting you’d find in any motel perched alongside any Interstate highway. There was nothing remarkable about it: the colors were ordinary, the composition was unimaginative and the frame just screamed “Bargin Bin at Michael’s”.

But I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Something about it kept calling me back to it, even when I wondered off to other parts of the sale. After my third orbit of the grounds, I picked up the picture, examining it. It was an oil painting on a piece of wood, rather than a canvas. The picture seemed strangely heavy for the size, surprising me as I hefted it up to take a closer look.

“That’s an interesting piece,” a voice said behind me. I turned to find a young woman with long black hair and impossibly dark eyes smiling at me.

“Excuse me?” I stammered.

“That painting,” she said, taking it from me. “It was my Grandfather’s favorite. He said it gave it him everything he ever wanted.”

“Is that so?” I said, sensing a come-on.

“Yep. He had it hanging over the mantle in the living room. He said it was his lucky charm.”


“Really.” She smiled wistfully. “Personally, I hated it. It’s not a very good painting, if you ask me. I’m going to be glad to get rid of it.”

Something inside me was pushing me forward, egging me on. “So, how much do you want for it?”

She looked at me as if I’d grown a third head. “Seriously?” she said, the disbelief causing her voice to rise an octave. “You want to buy this?”

I reached for my wallet. “Do you want to get rid of it or not?”

“Um… twenty bucks?” she stammered.

I pulled a twenty dollar bill out of the wallet and handed it to her. Taking the painting from her, I spun on my heels and hurried back to my car. I set it in the back seat, then got in. As the motor turned over, I shook my head, as if clearing cobwebs from inside. What was I doing? I just bought the world’s ugliest painting. And now, I was in a hurry to get it home.

What was I thinking?

For some reason, I hung the painting in the bedroom. Of course, this made no sense, but there it was. Hanging on the wall, just past the foot of the bed. The painting seemed to glow, but that was just a trick of the light pouring in from the street lamp.

That night, I fell into a deep sleep. I dreamed of the landscape in the painting. I was flying over the grassy meadow. No, wait… I wasn’t flying. I was running. The world sped past me as a blur of color and light. I heard—or rather, felt—a message sent directly into my very soul: no matter how impossible it is, one touch and you will be what he wants.

Then, I saw Bryan at the far end of the meadow. There was something unusual about him, but I knew it was him. Seeing me, he smiled and began moving toward me as I approached him. Meeting in the middle of meadow, we fall into each other’s arms. Our lips became locked as we met, our tongues exploring each other’s mouth. Bryan’s arms wrap around me, pulling me closer and closer to him.

“You are exactly what I want,” he whispers. “I need you, Steve. Take me.” His words cause my cock to stir. He drops to his knees and takes my cock in his hands, caressing it ever so gently. Waves of ecstasy roll over me, as he continues to massage me. I feel my cock growing. It’s fully hard now, but it can’t stop. I feel it getting bigger and bigger. Bryan begins to wrap his lips around the glans as I look down. I’m much bigger than I ever was—at least nine inches now and growing.

I can’t stand, weakened by the waves of pleasure that radiate from my groin. I fall to the ground, bringing Bryan with me. He begins to blur and change, but his lips stay on my penis. I’m still growing—over a foot and a half now. I feel the urge to ejaculate growing within me. I’ve never felt this kind of arousal before. Bryan pulls his mouth off me and continues pumping my cock faster and faster with his hands as my now three-foot cock reaches for the skies. Finally, I can’t hold back any longer and explode, releasing a torrent of cum high into air, raining down on him and me.

I woke up suddenly, sitting up in the bed and gasping for breath. I had never had a wet dream of that level of potency and vividness. I needed to take a leak, and pulled back the comforter. The cover was drenched with cum, as was the fitted sheet and my underwear. There was sticky jism everywhere. I was puzzled. I had performed like that in my dream, but it was just a dream.


What can I say about Monday? It was a Monday.

I fucking hate Monday. Monday just serves to remind me of the crushing nothingness my life has become. Get up, get dressed, get in the car, do the soulcrushing job, go home, go to bed, repeat until dead. There was only one thing about this oppressive repetition was seeing Bryan. Even if he never knew how I felt, just knowing that level of beauty existed in my world was enough to keep me going for just a little while longer.

As I worked through the pile of busywork that accumlated on my desk, I found a form that hadn’t been properly signed. It needed to go back to the client before it could be accepted. The salesman’s name at the top of the form was Bryan. My heart lept. I needed to take the form back to him and explain what was wrong. I’d actually have to talk to him!

As I got up out of my cubible, I chided myself for acting like a seventh-grader with a crush on the quarterback at the high school. “Act your age, Steve,” I said to myself. “You’re not a twelve-year old schoolgirl.”

I walked down the row of cubicle in the Sales department to the one Bryan occupied. He was on the phone, talking to a prospect when I stepped up. I indicated I needed to speak to him, pointing to the form. Bryan flashed me the smile I had been dreaming about. I tried to maintain my composure and not melt.

“Okay, Ed,” he said, giving me that I’m-trying-to-get-rid-of-this-guy finger. “Look, something’s just come in here and I need to take care of it. Can I give you a call back later and we can talk about that thing?” Bryan nodded, waving his hands in the universal sign for hurry-up-and-quit-talking. “Okay, good… Tomorrow afternoon, then? Good. Talk to you then.”

“Sorry about that,” Bryan said as he set the reciever down on the phone. “What’s up?”

I held up the form. “It’s the order from Bateson Supply. They forgot to sign it, and we can’t execute the order until…”

“Oh, that old geezer,” Bryan muttered. “He’s a nice old man, but he’s awfully forgetful.” He reached out his hand for the form. “Let me have it. I’ve got to go to that part of town tomorrow morning, and I can run it by and get the signature.”

I extended my hand, giving the form to Bryan. As he took it, our hands touched for the briefest of contacts. However, I felt as if an eight hundred kilovolt high-tension power line had dropped on my head. The world seemed to recede off into the distance and my head began to swirl. I began to feel hot and a bead or two sweat appeared on my forehead. As if that wasn’t enough, I suddenly felt hornier than I had ever been in my life. I felt my cock beginning to twitch. Bryan was looking at me in shock. “Hey, man,” he said. “Are you alright?”

“Uh… yeah,” I stammered. “I just… must be something I ate.” I was backing away, hoping that the movement would disguise the boner that was quickly growing in my pants. “Just need the bathroom.”

I turned and bolted to the door, crashing into the hallway. I stumbled into the men’s room and ran into the handicap stall. Tearing at my belt and pants, I struggled to release my insistent cock. Freed from the constrants of my pants, my cock sprang to attention, ripping my underwear. I was shocked and horrified to see the three-foot monster that had been in my dream the night before. The tip was coated in a dewy layer of pre-cum and it throbbed in anticipation of the stimulation it craved. I sat on the toilet seat, awed by what was growing between my legs.

No, I thought. This can’t be! This is impossible!! I felt the urge reach out with both hands and stroke my massive member. I struggled to resist, but the urge gave out. I grabbed ahold with both hands and began pushing the skin up and down. Waves of ecstasy washed over me, radiating throughout my body. I felt my shirt become taut against my torso and heard the sounds of clothing ripping as I slowly picked up speed with my stroking. The seams on my sleeves gave way, revealing massively muscled biceps. The buttons on my shirt popped one-by-one, revealing a chiseled abodmen and massive slabs of muscle for my pecs.

The urge to cum began to grow as I picked up the pace of my stroking. I passed the point where I had orgasmed before, but I kept going. I was in uncharted territory. My head was throbbing and I desperately needed to release, but my body wasn’t ready yet. My vision began to blur and I began to hear new colors and see new sounds as I barreled past what little sexual knowledge I knew. Finally, my balls exploded, unleasing waves of exhilaration throughout my quiverring body.

Then, everything went black.

I awoke to the sound of running water. I was drenched, and the cool tile floor had about a quarter-inch deep pool all around. The toilet bowl was shattered, lying in a thousand shards on the floor. The valve had snapped off, and the water line was running, doing its best to fill up a commode that, for all intents and purposes, didn’t exist any more.

I looked up at what remained of the handicap stall. The wall tiles were cracked, forming a spidery pattern that snaked along the length of the wall, against which a ceiling tile was leaning. The metal walls of the stall were bowed out, as if they’d tried to contain an explosion. The door was holding onto the wall with one screw. The other hinges were ripped out and a massive dent had bent the door into a concave shape.

Something dropped onto my face, landing just below my eye. I wiped it off, examining the substance between my fingers. It was slightly gooey and had a salty odor to it. I touched it with my tongue, instantly identifying the mystery material.

Cum. No doubt, it was my cum.

I looked up to the ceiling. There was the hole the ceiling tile had come from. The missing tile’s neighbors were dripping with the gooey spooge. Another drop, this time large, fell off the ceiling and landed on my upper lip. I extended my tongue and scooped up the ejaculate, savoring the saltiness as I swirled it in my mouth.

That’s odd, I thought to myself. I don’t like cum. Or do I? The cum was so delicious, I couldn’t resist. I had to have it.

“I can’t stay in here all day,” I muttered. I had to get back to work, and how was I going to explain this? Slowly, I rose to my feet, trying to work out an explanation for why the men’s room exploded. Unable to turn around, I backed out of the ruined stall, my hooves clicking on the tile.

I trotted over to the sink, wanting to look for any cuts. My head stood above the top of the mirror, forcing me to lean down. As I did, it struck me.

“My hooves?!?” I blurted out. I examined my reflection in the mirror.

I was a centaur.

This is going to be a little harder to explain than a busted up bathroom stall.

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