Thing-in-a-Bag

By Sleep Dep published August 2, 2013
Summary
Young man tries to return stolen property and finds himself trapped on a bus with an impatient dick.
I'm sitting on the bus in the rain. We're not moving, but the thing in my bag is. Passengers around me fan themselves and complain about the delay; a youngish Latino lady with bags of melting ice cream cries quietly across the aisle from me, red-nailed hand over her mouth, sniffling back snot. I can't see whose party it is, her frustration is too heavy a filter on my perception. And I'm pretty distracted as it is.

Collective body odor is reaching critical levels in here. The thing in my backpack is getting excited. I've got the bag in my lap, clenching it tight in my arms so no one will notice all the wriggling and ask me, "What you got in there, a puppy?" Once someone asks that, some bored kid deep in bus-ride despondency will perk up and demand to see the puppy, and then people will wonder why I'm keeping the poor desperate thing zipped up in a dirty backpack in all this heat and humidity and before you know it there'll be a rescue squad to get the thing out.

But the thing isn't a puppy; it's yours, your thing, and you'll wake up soon, and if you wake up and notice your dick is missing, our friendship is pretty much over.

It sucks being psychic, sometimes. Knowing what one must do. There is no refuge in ignorance: one simply does the absurd, the unthinkable, to prevent certain otherwise inevitable outcomes. Choice is a luxury we psychics can't afford. Not if we care about the future of the world.

Confused? Here's the breakdown:

1. You're addicted to porn. You'd jack off six, seven times a day if I let you. Your death grip has numbed your ability to feel pleasure from anything but your own beefy hand. You're not alone; our whole generation is hurtling toward a crisis of epidemic premature erectile dysfunction. Good news for Pfizer, bad news for us. I tell you that, and you don't listen. You grip your dick tighter than any hole in the human body ever could, and you pump it until I'm sure you must be coming blood. I tell you to take it easy. You never fucking listen to me.

2. You don't deserve your dick. It's beautiful, well above average, but its size is not the source of its beauty. Your cock is exactly seven inches long with a five inch girth, and I don't have time to explain the numerological significance of the sacred dozenal manifesting in the genitals of a firstborn son of a heretic priest (the day we met and you shook my hand, the flashes of your past flew so strongly into my third eye it almost knocked me out; but you, you big stupid lunk, have no idea what your old man was capable of back in the day when black masses were "in", no idea of the sick shit he did to create you--no wonder your mama can't look you in the eye). A tool as ripe with metaphysical potential as this, and what do you do with it? You beat it so often it's bruised and calloused, like a dogged plantation slave.

3. There are three weeks in August before we go back to university and in which, you said (and I quote), "I don't got nothing to do but sit around and jack it all day erry day, boo-yah!"

4. If I let you flay your magic johnson seven times a day seven days a week for three weeks then, I shit you not, the metaphysical reverberations of such precise numerological wankery on a dozenal dick will cause be an earthquake off the coast of Okinawa, followed by tsunami activity that will make the Fukushima tragedy of '11 look like a slip 'n slide.

5. So I put you in a light coma and stole your dick.

Like I said, psychics don't have the luxury of choice. We do what we have to do to keep a million Okinawans safe.

For the firstbon bastard son of a heretic priest, you didn't put up much of a fight against low-grade hypnotic suggestion. Of course, if you had any psychic resistance at all, you probably wouldn't be suckered in so easily by those tacky porn sites, so I can't say I was surprised by how easy it was to put you under and steal your cock.

It's coming up on the end of those three weeks you said you had off. We've had a great time, your dick and I. I've taken it around town, shown it ley lines and fairy rings. I held it aloft near the spray of the waterfall in the park, so it could feel the cool droplets against its flushed warmth. I told it to let me know when it was ready for action. We could take it slow. I was in no rush. But after a day away from you, it was more than ready to come with me.

We camped out in the park under the stars on a picnic blanket that night. I laid your dick against mine and jerked us both off, carefully, without any deadening death-grip. It took a while for your cock to adjust to the relative lightness of my touch, the slide of my fingers along its foreskin, the friction of my own cock against it: it had to adjust to the sense of a partner in crime rather than a master to please. With your balls still attached to your drooling, senseless body at home, your cock has no ejaculate and no refractory period after orgasm--frot without end, amen. Never have I been so glad of the ability to forge an empathic link with something via physical contact.

That was the beginning of paradise for us, as your dick learned the joys of another man's touch. It got to learn the power of all the slow sensual things you denied it since you first learned to hump a rough corduroy couch cushion. If our sessions went on too long, or produced too many orgasms from your excitable cock, I would skip a day or two, let it get hot and frustrated, so that the metaphysical cum-counter reset itself, in order to be sure we'd avoid the fatal seven-times-a-day for twenty-one days catastrophe. Thus I successfully prevented the miniature apocalypse your incessant wanking would have wrought. If your dick got anxious when I left it alone for a while, it seemed to forget its insecurities when I made up for my inattention the next day.

(Before you get freaked out: Your dick isn't normally self-aware. It's just, with you unconscious, I needed something to talk to. Also I haven't been laid since high school, so you can forgive me for getting carried away. Also, your cock started it. Also... one million Okinawans, man. Do you want that karma on your head?)

But that was then and this is now. We have just three hours till midnight, then the spell will break. If your dick isn't reattached by then, you'll be stuck for life without it.

The accident that's blocked traffic is getting closer. I can't see the flashing lights of the emergency response vehicles but I can sense them, dimly, clouded by all the humidity and sweat and despair in this forsaken airless bus.

Your dick jerks against the nylon of my backpack. It knows its time is ending. It wants one more orgasm before it loses the self-awareness I granted it.

"Hey, come on," I whisper into the bag, through a small opening where the two heads of the zipper meet. "Not in public."

If it continues twisting and flopping around much longer, I know what will happen. We'll be discovered, and if we're discovered I'll never make it back to you in time. I'll never be able to explain why I had my roommate's dick in my bag, and I don't want to go to prison labeled a dick thief.

Knowing what will happen if I ignore your cock, I must do whatever is necessary to prevent a catastrophic outcome.

"You needy prick." I sigh and shift the bag to the side, so it rests atop my left thigh, leaning against the side of the bus under the window. Crying Latino Lady has begun muttering prayers in Spanish. Some kid is whining without words. Someone behind me is watching YouTube compilation videos on his Samsung Galaxy Note. I almost send an electromagnetic pulse to disrupt his signal, because I hate smartphones on principle (they fuck up ley lines), but I realize the noise he's making will keep more attention off of me.

I can use every distraction I can get. It's not easy to jack off a dick, even a disembodied and concealed one, on public transit without a few people noticing.

I unzip the bag enough to get my hand in. Left hand, for this sinister purpose. Your dick instantly catapults itself into my palm with a sharp slap, pulsing with anticipation. It's hard as diamonds and sweaty as anything else on this goddamn bus. Even the plasticky seats are tacky with moisture.

"Easy," I whisper, wrapping my fingers around your quivering girth. This thing is excitable, it makes me smile. Your dick began our time together lethargic, dulled by meaningless over-stimulation. Now it's a hot energetic snake, a lithe and living thing with a sense of humor and an aching, throbbing need that you don't have to be an indigo child to sense.

Your cock has more personality than you do. Maybe when we're home and I've built up my psychic energy again I'll go to work on you. Aunt Maggy told me not to work on changing a human directly, because I'm not ready for something that complicated yet. But these twenty-one days with your playful, loving cock makes me certain I could handle a dimwit like you.

You'll feel this in your dreams, probably, phantom sensations that you won't remember on waking. You'll lift your head off your pillow, a line of spit stretching between it and your chin as you roll over, mouth gaping, hips twitching--

Your cock twists in my hands, wriggling until it has my fingers where it wants them, like a persistent cat. Forget that asshole, it's telling me. Just me and you now, Mr. Hands, it would say, if it had a mouth.

(Can I do that? Can I give a dick a mouth? I could whip up a new curse, get you into a coma again and then take your mouth along with your cock. Then I could combine them, Frankenstein-style. Think of the possibilities...)

I give your cock a reassuring squeeze and begin moving, up, down. But it's impatient. It can't find the right leverage to stay straight up--it's erect, but it's a little too eager. It's having trouble balancing, and I'm having trouble finding the right angle to hold my arm at, so your cock is slipping and I'm fumbling and we're both getting frustrated. The whole bus is full of people in various states of distress, hammering their mental bullshit into my third eye, so I can't concentrate on the task at hand.

Your cock is beside itself. It flips out of my hands, slaps against the side of the bag. The bulge it creates there is visible to anyone who's looking. They'll think, just what is that creepy, scruffy-looking guy playing with so intently?

I grab your dick. "Hold. Still." What can I do? I could reach inside with both hands, one to hold your dick in place and one to stroke it, but to get the backpack open wide enough for both my hands to fit would leave your dick in plain sight of everyone. I try sort of tossing your dick and catching it, thinking that might provide enough friction, but that just makes your dick mad. I have the feeling it would bite me if it had teeth. (Forget the mouth idea, then.)

(Mouth. Yes.)

I see it unfolding in my mind's eye--I can't fit both my hands in the bag while jerking your dick off, no, but maybe if I shift, I could unzip the bag just so, then bring my knees up and pull my jacket over my head... It will look weird but it might hide us enough that no one will be able to say, for sure, that I was sucking something off.

One of Aunt Maggy's Minders goes off in my mind. A light ding-ding-ding. It's a false alarm. They've been going off a lot lately. She put those reminders in my head to notify me when I'm about to enter a potential blind spot. When my own emotions or whatever are too strong, they cloud my third eye so my powers don't work well. But this is yet another false alarm--it's not as if powerful emotions are making me want to suck your cock. It's simply the best option to quiet the poor fella down, given the circumstances. The best thing to do so I'm not caught with my roommate's dick in a bag.

I get into position, curled against the side of the bus with my back to Crying Lady. My denim jacket over my head, neck, and shoulders muffles the sounds of rain and complaining, the hiss of brakes as the bus' crawl comes to yet another halt. My jacket smells like warm earth, it's been my pillow on nights we've stayed outdoors. I gently remove my hand from the bag. Your dick goes nuts, flopping and slapping itself around inside the backpack, full of impotent rage. Impotent is the wrong word. Right now your angry cock is the opposite of impotent--keep your little blue pills, Pfizer, we've got a live one.

"Hey McDick," I whisper. It pauses. The light isn't too good but it I can see the shape of your cock leaning against the side of the bag, wide mushroom head turned away from me, as if pouting. The smell of musk is strong--it's been in there a while. I unzip the bag a little wider and wiggle my hand back inside. "I'm still right here."

It rolls along the edges of the bag toward the wetness of my breath. The tip is just under the opening of the bag. Just under my mouth. I swallow and feel myself growing hard. "We haven't done this yet," I whisper. I take your cock into my hand. It stands straight, full, attentive and curious. "I said we could take it slow, and we did. But there's a lot we didn't have time to try." I roll my thumb over the head of your cock. It likes that.

Quickly I do a 360-degree sweep with my third eye to check my surroundings. The cumulative angst of the bus passengers is suffocating, but no one seems to be paying attention to me. A few curious glances. If I'm careful maybe they'll think I'm napping.

(Ding-ding-ding.)

I lift your cock a little closer, pushing my face into the darkness of the backpack. I lick your cock's head lightly. Just a taste.

It tastes like sweat, salt, and backpack lint.

I didn't want to suck your cock before now. I can jerk it off, I can rub it in various parts of my body--it really likes my armpits--but cocksucking crosses a line. Empathic links are strengthened with physical contact, and some contact is stronger than others. Taking something inside of me, even just into my mouth, is an act I'd rather save for a cock with a real brain attached to it, the brain of a man who can appreciate what I'm doing for him. Preferably another psychic, someone I can create a psychic-empathic feedback loop with, who can give as good as he gets. In other words, someone I can connect with. Not a lackluster pushover like you.

I'm not sure I'll find another cock as fun as yours, though.

I carefully brush more lint from your throbbing member. Your cock starts wriggling again, trying to snap itself out of my grasp. "Motherfucker," I growl. It doesn't want to wait. "Fine." I take the head into my mouth.

Its burst of delight rewards that move. It tries to thrust itself deeper. I slide my hand down toward the base, holding it steady and giving it leverage. I squirm in my seat to try to hide both what I'm doing to the thing in my bag and my own growing erection. Ding-ding-ding, goes Aunt Maggy's Minder.

The bus jerks forward again. As it rolls along with all the speed of a proverbial tortoise, I work the head of your cock, tease it with my tongue. Your cock wants to go deeper and be fully enveloped. It's never felt the inside of a mouth before, and it relishes the heat, the slick wetness, the push and suck of tongue and lip. I have to admit, I love the smell of your cock, sweaty and musty as it is. I would probably love it more if I could smell and feel a body worthy of being attached to a cock like this. I'm sure you're writhing in your comatose sleep to a phantom blowjob you'll never remember. Maybe I'll stick your cock on someone else...

I hunch my shoulders to get my face deeper into the bag, while bringing my knees up closer, so I'm cradling the backpack--and your dick--against my groin. The teeth of the backpack zipper tug at my throat. The bus is still moving, but not picking up speed. We'll pass the accident soon.

Ding-ding-ding. Ding-ding-ding.

Your dick pushes itself, throbbing and arching, into my mouth, helped along by my left hand. My lips slide down your shaft and then I pull my head back, while my left hand slides your cock further out of my mouth. In and out. Long and slow, then short and fast. I want to find a rhythm your cock will go crazy for.

Your cock wants to go to deeper. I'm not at a good angle to get it down my throat without anyone who looks being able to guess what's going on. My pants are too tight, and I struggle to keep my hips still. It's hard to keep my free right hand busy clutching the outside of the backpack so it won't unzip my pants to get at my own erection. I feel your cock's pleasure, the way it thrills at the touch of lips, tongue, wet heat. As it impatiently rushes toward an orgasm I feel my own starting, frustratingly too soon, I'm not ready, but I'm going to come in my pants, and fuck it I don't care. The Minder is a fire alarm in my head, a harsh continuous ringing, and I'm desperate to finish, determined to finish, I don't care what this looks like from the outside, I sit up and bend over, taking your cock down as deep as I can, letting it revel in the tight swallowing of my throat, till we can't hold back any longer. Your cock releases its tension, flooding us both with pleasure--if it had a mouth it would be thanking me, praising me, or maybe I'm thanking it and praising it, maybe I'm moaning as I gently pull it out of my mouth, the last spasms of our orgasms mingling confusedly. I expect there to be cum in my mouth but there's just my own spit and lots of it. I try to swallow what's not there, what's trapped in your scrotum somewhere, what's seeping thickly through my own trousers.

The psychic entanglement is coming undone; we're separating. I wrap my lips around the head of your cock, holding the twitching thing in my mouth, to try to keep the connection strong. I lean sideways, against the window. The jacket is still over my head and my face is still buried in the backpack, breathing deeply through my nose. Your cock is ready for another round. Almost against my will, my tongue begins circling your cockhead head again, enjoying the smooth warmth. A moan rises from my chest, almost inaudible. Not inaudible enough.

"Pervert." I don't know if someone said that or just thought it. Well, they can't see what I'm fellating, so as far as they know I'm just a creep on a bus sucking a dildo. That doesn't bother me. I feel too good to be embarrassed. I loosen my grip on your cock enough to trace small patterns around its surface as I begin to suck on the tip.

Brakes hiss. The bus has stopped again. Are those flashing lights? I twist so I can peek out the window, lowering your cock enough that I hope it will be out of sight when I raise my head. I'm very reluctant to let it leave my mouth.

Your car is mangled on the left-hand lane of this two-lane highway. It's in a heap of other mangled cars. I know it's your car, just as surely as I know the Latina lady is staring at my back in disgust, having just witnessed me come in my pants with my head in a bag.

But you weren't supposed to wake up until midnight.

Your cock nudges at my hand and pulses. I hold it firmly but without moving.

There's firemen with Jaws of Life prying apart someone else's car. It's a huge pile-up, maybe ten, no, twelve cars total--

Twelve cars.

My third eye rolled itself back when I was cumming, so it's taking a while to blink back to awareness. Your cock squirms in my hand, even as I realize with burning cheeks that the guy with the Samsung has been filming me. I twist to look at him and he sinks into his seat--all I see is a baseball cap, some curly hair. He snickers.

That's going on the internet. No doubt about it.

I didn't foresee any of this. Things have been going so well with your cock and I, I was so certain our trip would prevent the worst earthquake and tsunami disaster modern man has ever seen, but now I see the ambulance that they're loading the stretcher with you onto, and the knowledge of what happened comes to me in flashes--

You woke up from your hypnotic coma way ahead of schedule, but still heavily under my suggestions and the spell itself.

Panic filled you as you realized you had no penis. Sorry. (Not sorry. (I love your cock.))

You tried to drive yourself to the hospital. Still under the effects, the suggestions, the removal spell, you stumbled clumsily all the way down to the lot where your car was parked. You were naked, raving, drooling, dead-eyed, two hundred pounds of senseless scared muscle. People scrambled to get out of your lumbering way. No one tried to stop you from getting behind the wheel.

And then this, the pile-up, which was your fault. My fault.

Your cock's fault.

Your cock shifts in my hand and Aunt Maggy's Minders go quiet as I exit my psychic blind spot.

I'm holding a very powerful tool in my hands. A wand, created by a heretic priest during a black mass. I don't know what happened exactly--but some leftover ritual magic from your father combined with my psychic tampering and dick-removal spell has awakened a tool capable of outsmarting me. More than capable. Your cock has been leading me around the whole time. It's let me think I'm in charge while feeding me what I needed to believe to do its will.

And now you're in the ambulance on your way to the hospital.

I stuff my face back in the bag to address your cock. "He's unconscious, isn't he."

Your cock throbs in response.

"It's a real coma now, right? He won't wake up at midnight. You'll be free, for as long as he's on life support."

If your cock had a mouth, it would be laughing.

I don't like being played.

I zip the bag up and stand, slinging it over my shoulder. Your dick is unprepared for the swing and I hear it thud against the side of the bag.

The passengers who'd seen me get myself off a couple minutes ago roll their eyes or snarl in disgust as I pass. I send that electromagnetic pulse toward the guy with the phone but I'm not sure it's strong enough to disrupt any signal, much less erase whatever video he took. I'm too drained. And now that I know what must be done to your cock, I can't afford to waste time worrying about my dignity. I'll die from shame later, right now there I have a job to do.

The bus is going slow enough that I can walk to the front easily, grabbing onto passing seats for balance as your cock flails around inside my bag.

I just wanted to show a special cock a good time. I wanted to save it from a man who didn't appreciate it, and save a million Okinawans in the process. But you weren't just a compulsive masturbator, were you? You were keeping it under control. You were strangling the life out of your cock for a reason. And I was too cocky--sorry. I was too arrogant to consider there was method to your mindlessness.

Your cock is flopping and flailing, pounding against my back as I force the bus doors open. The driver protests my exit but I don't care. I'm too exhausted to try to work on him, but not too exhausted to push my way out of the reluctant folding doors.

I have to make sure your cock doesn't live past this night.

_________


The rain has stopped and it's six in the morning when I stumble into bed. I need to sleep. I need to build up my energy. Police might come by. I might have to work on them so they don't suspect me of anything.

I can still feel the pitiful twitches of your dick's final moments as I skinned and pinned it within the fairy circle as an offering to Oberon. My heart ached as the life drained from your beautiful seven-by-five cock. But it had to be done. You don't need a cock that can cause traffic accidents and earthquakes walking about the earth... Or rolling and flopping about the earth.

Rolling, flopping.

It almost sounds like something is rolling and/or flopping across my floor right now.

It can't be your cock, of course. Your cock has been, to the horror of your anti-semitic family I'm sure (if they could see it somehow), poorly and crudely circumcised. Its head is split in two and it's been pinned with silver within a fairy ring. Oberon is a heavy player; he won't let a cock like that out of his sight for a second.

I roll over and pull my sheets tighter around me. They slither against my legs.

No. That slithering was not the sheets.

It creeps up, inching like a worm, along my left thigh, then over it. It reaches my now-shrunken testicles, which have retracted in a fear I haven't known since the night I accidentally made an empathic link with an investment banker on the eve of financial ruin. A cold sweat breaks out over my body.

It nestles down there as if nothing is wrong. It's vibrating, almost purring, as it undulates against me. My heart pounds in my chest, blood draining from my face as my hand moves to find something I can use as a weapon--

(ding-)

Hah. Why would I need a weapon? I love this thing. We've had a great three weeks together.

(ding-ding-ding)

My heart flutters. With a sleepy smile I feel myself starting to get hard against the gentle, nuzzling pressure of your flayed dozenal cock. What an insistent, greedy little bastard. It's successfully managed to draw my stiffening cock out of the fly of my briefs. It rubs itself against my erection in delight, sending shivers down my spine at the touch of its raw, hot, exposed flesh on my own intact skin. Crawling with goosebumps despite the summer heat, my hand moves downward to stroke it, and your cock rises to meet my touch.

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