A Dangerous Game by Rick R. Reed Page B

wasn’t sure what time it was, but the near silence outside, the quality of dim light in the room, and some sort of internal time clock all told him it was the middle of the night.
    At first he wasn’t sure what had pulled him from slumber’s embrace. The usual suspects for something awakening him were conspicuously absent—there was no urge to pee, no remnants of nightmare chasing around the edges of his conscious mind. Outside there was no distant wail of a siren.
    He turned on Devin’s couch, away from the back of it, and gave a little gasp. A figure was standing over him, little more than a shadow. As his eyes better adjusted to the darkness, Wren recognized Devin, who stood, barely illuminated by the scant sodium vapor streetlight coming in through miniblind slats.
    “Dev?” he croaked out in the dark room.
    “Yeah, man. You look hot, sleeping like that.”
    Wren sighed, yanking the sheet up over himself. “Honest to God, Dev.”
    It was then he noticed the regular up and down pumping, Devin’s hand on his dick.
    Creepy! The guy is beating off while he watches me sleep? Wren felt a peculiar—or perhaps it wasn’t so peculiar—sense of violation. “Cut it out,” he whimpered.
    “Look at my dick, man. Look how hard you make it, even when you’re asleep. You drive me nuts, Wren.”
    Devin moved his dick so it was positioned right over Wren’s face, still pumping away. At one time Wren had considered the dick a thing of beauty, worthy of casting in a porno, but right now he just wanted to slap it away. Hard. He would too, if he didn’t think Devin would get a thrill out of it.
    “You wanna suck it?”
    “No. I want to sleep, man. Get the fuck back in bed.”
    “Can’t. Too fuckin’ horned up.” Devin pumped harder, flexing his knees so the dick lowered down, closer to Wren’s face.
    “The bathhouse is a few blocks over,” Wren said tonelessly. “I believe it’s open twenty-four hours. You’ll find someone there, even now. What time is it, anyway?”
    “Time to fuck,” Devin panted.
    “I should have figured you’d say that. I’m not interested, man.”
    “Come on. All you have to do is roll over on your stomach. I’ll do all the work. It’ll feel so good.”
    As much as Wren loved sex and loved getting fucked, this whole scenario was so surreal and out of line that he had absolutely no desire for this very hot, very horned-up man whose enormous dick was only inches from his face. Funny thing about Wren—he liked to be an equal participant in matters sexual.
    And right now he felt like any choice he had had been ripped away. He wasn’t sure if he should get up and punch the guy in the face or simply get up and leave.
    Before he could decide anything, Devin began pumping his cock faster and started to moan, his body contracting. Before Wren knew what was happening, hot jets of come were raining down on his face and hair. Wren squeezed his eyes shut tightly, knowing from past experience that semen in the eyes was not a pleasant thing.
    None of this is pleasant , Wren thought as he felt the crawly semen trickle down his face and onto his neck.
    “God, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” Devin moaned. “I couldn’t help myself.” He shook the final few drops of come off on Wren’s face, squeezing the tip of his dick to make sure he got every drop. “You wanna clean it off?” He placed his dick a tongue length away from Wren’s mouth.
    Wren turned away, his back to Devin. He wanted to cry.
    He thought this must kind of be what it felt like to be raped.
    “Go away,” he whimpered.
    To his immense relief, he heard Devin pad away from him, toward his bedroom.
    Wren lay there for a long time, shaking. Finally he wiped his face with the sheet, sat up, lit a cigarette, and waited for morning.
    He sat up all night, smoking and trying to tell himself he was being silly. He hadn’t been raped, not really. Devin hadn’t even touched him.
    So why did he feel so violated? Why did he feel Devin had