More Contact than Tracing

"Yes, it is," Buxton whispers. "It's what I do. It's what I create for the Internet—the worlds I create to escape the cruelty of the world we're in. It may be why this pandemic is manageable for me. I can create my own worlds. And sometimes—sometimes, like now—when I have someone willing to go there with me—I can enter those worlds and leave this one behind, if only for a few blissful moments."

He is close behind me. His hands grasp the material of my T-shirt, pulling it out of my jeans and up and off my back. I raise my arms to help him. I am willing to go into that new world of his mind with him. I am anxious to leave the pandemic world of today and to be transported with him into a sexual fantasy.

"Watch the Schlange fucking the young man," Buxton whispers. I do, while Buxton undoes the band holding my pink-stranded blond hair, lets the hair cascade to my shoulders, and wraps an arm around my chest from behind. "As much horror as there is in that scene, I created it so that the viewer would know that Jacques gives himself to it; that, in the moment, he wants the monster to totally fuck him. We are going to fuck like that. In spite of the horror you see in this pandemic, I will fuck you in a new, carefree time and space—and it's what you want."

He didn't need to say that. I'd always found that, when a man lets my hair fall down—when I let him do that—we are going to have sex—he's going to put his cock in me. "Yes," I respond.

His lips—his mask obviously pushed to the side—go to the nape of my neck. His fingers play with the rings in my nipples. His other hand unbuckles my belt, unzips me, and flares my fly open. He frees and grasps my shaft and strokes me to the rhythm of the pulsating on the screen where the monster is fucking and breeding Jacques.

A tentacle is wrapped around Jacques's cock, which has grown to tremendous proportions, as screen animation can provide. Just to make acquiescence clear to Buxton, I reach around to the back of the chair, finding him in full erection, as I assume he will be, and I stroke him to the same beat he is stroking me—to the same rhythm that the Schlange is fucking and stroking Jacques.

After a few minutes, Buxton slips around to kneel in front of the chair, slips off my jeans and briefs, and takes me in his mouth. I hold his bald head between my hands, stroking his temples with my thumbs and rubbing my inner thighs against the rough stubble of his cheeks. I moan, my moans harmonizing with those from Jacques on the screen, as he coaxes me to roll my pelvis up more. I raise and spread my legs, hanging my heels on the edge of an upper shelf in the bookshelf behind the computer as Buxton licks and sucks my balls and then moves down further, slipping fingers and then his tongue into my anus. I pant and groan, working to control an ejaculation, as he expertly eats me out, all the time preparing me, coaxing me to open fully to what I've already discovered will be a horse's cock. Everything about this man is big.

If I were not already a whore for men, I would be afraid of what I know he's going to put in me. But I'm not afraid. I'm anxious to take it. It's been too long. I've been too preoccupied with the threat of the pandemic. I need a man inside me. I need to ride a horse.

"Yes, yes," I murmur as I watch the Schlange continue to envelop and fuck Jacques on screen. As Jacques is doing, the imprisoning tentacles seemingly not really being needed, I let Buxton do whatever he wants with me. All I need to know is that he's going to put it in me, work me with it, taking me out of today's world to a land of pleasure.

He takes his mouth away only long enough to murmur, "A bit of socializing now and again is nice, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"You've got my measure. Are you afraid?"

"Yes. But hurry. Do it. Do me." He laughs.

"The next time I'll have satin gloves."

There would be a next time. "Oh, shit; oh, fuck," I whisper as I pull his face back into my crotch.

When Jacques comes on the screen, I come for Buxton, creaming his cheeks. I watch as the Schlange also tenses and jerks and comes, again and again, filling the young man and the screen with its cum. The door to the carriage is flung open and the husk of the young man is propelled out into a swirl of mist, as the screen goes blank.

Buxton rises, puts his hands on me, turns me so that my knees are in the chair, my belly pressed into the top of the chair back, my head and arms dangling down to the floor behind the chair.

"Sway your back and jut your ass out. I'm gonna put it in," he growls.

A man in command. I moan and do as he demands. He grabs my waist between his hands, his thumbs pressed into the flesh of my buttocks to flare the cheeks and spread the hole open. He mounts and penetrates me, and he fucks me in long, deep strokes to his completion. I moan for him, letting him take what he wants, as he wants it. I am wearing my mask; he is behind me; he is wearing his mask; he is barebacking me, but in pandemic terms we are having safe contact.

In ever more insistent, deeper, faster thrusts, I am being royally fucked.

* * * *

Buxton, naked, lay on his back on his weight bench, feet planted on the floor on either side of the bench. He grasped my waist between his hands, helping to lift and lower me on his thick, long cock as, facing away from him, I rode him in a cowboy. Doggie wasn't the only safe position, I had told him. That had been my way to signal I wanted to fuck again. We both were wearing our face masks and nothing else, having established that the virus would not be transmitted by fucking. We didn't kiss. We were being safe in that regard. Conversely, he, again, wasn't sheathed with a rubber. That much risk taking was exhilarating.

I was possibly being foolish, but I didn't give a shit. Buxton was a hunk, and he had the cock of a horse, which I kept tell him—"Fuck you're big. Shit, you're a fuckin' horse. You've got the cock of a horse!"—as, riding him and stroking myself off, I galloped into a mutual ejaculation.

We drank a third beer as we sat across from each other, I back on the sofa and he in the facing chair, and each watched the other masturbate to another shoot off. Practicing totally safe sex now. We were more than six feet apart. Our toes were touching on top of the coffee table between us, though.

"You'll come back and bring your massage table when the restrictions are relaxed more?" he asked. "I'll pay you. Sheltering is survivable with an occasional time out like this."

"I'll take my pay in a subscription to the URL where I can watch your cartoons," I said.

"Done. You'll bring your satin gloves too?"

"If you like."

"Give me a week and then check the URL. Click on the 'Joshua' button. There'll be something there to tell you how much I enjoyed this."

I did. When I clicked on the "Joshua" button, it came up with a naked figure looking just like me, being fucked by a hung centaur with the facial features of Bill Buxton.

Yes, Buxton was a horse.

I never found Clint Colburn. Armed with the knowledge that it wasn't actual cock-in-hole fucking that transmitted the decease, I learned to love my job of tracing down men in the Melbourne homosexual community. I remembered the satin gloves as well as the portable massage table the next time I visited Ventura Circle, just off Hollywood Boulevard, in south Melbourne, to watch cartoons and go for a wild ride.