Midnight Sphere [18+] [MxM] Ch. 4

Guy was backstage in a dimly lit dinner theatre room, surrounded by costumes strung up on a rack. A stage light cut through the curtains before they were parted to leave him exposed, standing in front of his worst nightmare.

This crowd was probably most, if not all, NPCs, but still... it was a crowd. An audience. Guy looked for the one person that he was sure was real, but there was one obstacle to that: they were all wearing costumes.

A pig face stared directly into his soul from the front row.

"What the hell?" Guy's voice wavered.

He did not like this. Not at all.

None of this had been here the last time. It had only been a dark arcade room, which Guy thought was a strange setting to fuck, but didn't think much of it.

His body was frozen, cold sweat breaking out over every inch of his skin. Something hot and dangerous crawled up his chest, threatening to burst out of him in a yell.

The faces blended together in a blur as he attempted to engage his limbs. The hollow eyes followed him as Guy crept meekly off stage.

Being on stage was so abhorrent.

It was absolutely humiliating that he needed Ashley, loath as he was to admit an excellent public speaker, to compensate, and he dreaded this part of the rollout of his invention more than any aspect.

Despite practicing in the mirror and trying relaxation techniques that Mark suggested, it was something he wasn't able to get past. He tried everything to block it out of his mind.

He ran out the door with a big EXIT sign above his head, ending up back in that arcade room. Guy heaved, a flood of relief that it appeared there was no one here.

It was simply much better to be admired from afar; that was all. Guy wasn't scared.

"Back for more, are you?" a voice crooned.

Guy screamed.

"Woah, calm down, guy!"

Nine, the man he was looking for, was sitting in an arcade chair across the room. He'd perked up to look at Guy in equal concern, but then slid back down in his seat moments later.

Guy studied the other man. Nine was a few inches taller than him, his long limbs and torso reminding him of an indoor plant that stretched to meet the light.

The man was wearing black rabbit ears that blended in with his dark hair. He wore a bow tie, though his scarred, toned chest was bare, a regular Playboy bunny.

His pair of tight-fitting black pants was currently shrugged to his ankles, with sleek shoes to match. From a distance, the man appeared to be masturbating.

When Guy came closer, upon further inspection, he was indeed masturbating.

"How did you know my name?" Guy demanded.

The man arched his dark brows in confusion, mixed with the pleasured way they drew tight. Realization dawned on his handsome features.

He chuckled from deep in his chest.

"That's your name? It was just an expression on my part."

Guy sighed.

"Yeah, not the first time that's happened."

His eyes slid to the action happening between the others' legs, to what had his lip bitten, what had him flushed and sleek.

The man panted, sweat beading on his skin that glowed a pale pink in the arcade light. He pumped a black stroker up and down, what Guy initially thought was a butt plug, while his eyes roamed his shelf without much scrutiny.

"So," Nine huffed, grunted, "You have caught me in quite the mood." He let out a laugh. "Did you want to go another round?"

"I'm here to get you out of the game, Nine."

The other groaned.

"Nine? Oh, because I'm number nine in the trials."

"Yeah, that's it."

"I don't--nghh--really think you could call this a game, Guy."

Guy considered this for a moment. Video games typically had more complex objectives. While they became dangerously addictive to him, part of the fun, at least, was to do hard things for a reward.

This was much more like the rat smashing that button over and over.

This person had slipped into a mindless state of arousal far longer than Guy could ever touch, quite fortunately, even during his time as a NEET after college.

Panting filled the room, coming more desperate.

He was torn from his introspection to look down at Nine, still masturbating.

Guy gestured with a flip of his wrist.

He didn't know what to do after he stopped studying, without the structure and routine of school. That's when the gaming, which was harmless fun, turned into his whole world to cope.

Guy was terrifyingly directionless, despite his plans, uncertain where to go with it all for a time. It was the darkest point of his life, even when he had Mark to lean on.

He wondered how many people, who were in a similar situation in some way, were escaping, running away into the false safety of a virtual world.

Entrapped in comfort and pleasure, facilitated by him.

The thought clung to his skin.

Raspy, deep moans alternated with pitched-up squeaks.

He looked down at Nine again, still masturbating.

"In any case, it's time to go," Guy said stiffly.

"Almost done."

The dark spade that fit in his palm slipped slickly up and down the small shaft that Nine had managed, incredibly, to grow himself.

Guy respected those two inches because Nine worked for it, built something from the base up, unlike some people who never worked for anything.

However, while admirable, he was still being excessive at the moment.

When he was with this man last time, he thought enviously that he'd gotten a taste of what everyone else got to experience. People, like himself in that moment, made him sick.

This man didn't know that Guy was the closest thing to a living deity, yet the bitter pill was that he was never good enough for anyone.

Guy watched jealously while the other pleasured himself.

"Guy, I want nothing more than to kiss you from head to toe and make sweet love to you in the real world. You would be heaven to touch. Oh fuck, yes, yes," the horny man groaned.

The man grunted animalistically, gritting his teeth in a tense smile.

Guy rolled his eyes with a huff.

"Come on, man."

Nine bloomed with a rosy blush all at once, his thighs shaking. His voice wavered lowly. "I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come, I-"

Every inch of the man pulled tight as a bowstring.

"Fu-huck!"

Nine bucked uncontrollably into the mouth of the toy, an arrow released from the tightest grip. He collapsed into the chair, his tall body bowing over.

The man wiped the sweat that had collected at his temple.

"Phew! Okay, now, what were you saying?

"I'm here to pull you out."

"Ah, a little late for that."

Nine laughed at his own half-witted play on words. The man sighed, appearing to sober for a moment.

"It's time to go, Nine."

"But I don't want to leave," Nine slurred, and it wasn't clear whether the orb had affected him in some inexplicable way, or if he was cumdrunk.

Guy rather assumed the latter.

"Well, I don't want to brush my teeth twice a day, but if I don't, they'll rot out of my head."

Nine looked at him up and down fully, then ran his tongue over his teeth.

"Feels clean to me."

"I'm not letting you rot."

"Aw, that's so sweet of you."

"If something happens to you-"

"You won't be held liable. We all signed the waiver, remember?" the other said with a sudden lucidity, before settling back into a euphoric haze.

"I don't think you understand what you're saying, Nine. If you stay in this game, you will die."

The other snorted.

"Like you care what happens to me. Do you even know my name?"

"It's... it's Nine."

"It's Ryan."

Now that he had a name, more than just a number in a trial, it would be even worse if he died. Guy needed to save this person. Also, Ryan was smoking hot, and he couldn't hook up with him in the real world if he perished from neglect.

Guy exhaled in frustration.

"Ryan."

"Yes?"

The plan forming vaguely in the back of his mind solidified once it passed his lips.

"Ryan, we will never get the chance to meet in real life if you stay here, and I need to get over my ex, so get your ass out of this eight ball and be my rebound trophy boyfriend!"

Ryan straightened in the chair as though someone poured a bucket of ice water over his head, a shocked expression to match.

"How long ago did you break up?"

The immediacy of this question threw Guy completely off guard. He crossed his arms as though to shield himself from scrutiny, feeling somehow more vulnerable than the man with his pants down.

"It's been a year," he said.

Ryan, who slipped in and out of clarity, gave him an almost sympathetic look.

"It's not a rebound after a year, hon. But I'll be your trophy." Ryan grinned and winked.

Guy looked as astonished as Ryan had for a long stretch, the only movement the flickering lights of the arcade games.

"So we're doing this then."

"Yep."

Ryan stood, all hanging out.

The small cock pulsed from what Guy imagined had been many orgasms, hanging above a deliciously wet cunt that he had gotten his fill of, before getting turned around and pounded by his thick toy.

Ryan pulled up his pants, then crossed the room, putting the stroker up next to the big purple strapon.

"So, I have a question," Ryan said, suddenly tentative. "How do we leave?"

Guy looked at him like he'd started to glow radioactive.

"You take your headset off, dude."

"Oh."

Ryan pulled at his rabbit ears, but after a moment of immense struggle, nothing happened.

He huffed.

"It's not working."

Guy scrutinized the other man. Then he wondered for a moment if maybe the technology was somehow the issue. He thought about what could possibly be different, but only the color of his toy came to mind.

Ryan had an orb they decided to call orchid purple, even though it was more like an eggplant shade, which did not sound sexy according to Mark.

Guy initially mistook it for a black orb until catching the shimmering dark purple under the light.

He was almost certain that there was no other difference between Ryan's eight ball and his own.

"Well, you could try commanding it. Say, take me back to my room, or something."

The other cleared his throat.

"Take me back to my room."

Guy waited for the other to pixulate, disappear in the smallest squares of light, but the space remained dim from only the glow of the games lining either side of them.

"Well... this is a development, to be sure," Guy said.

He watched with wide uncertainty as the other began to panic.

"What do I do? How do I get out?" his words tripped over one another.

"Okay, Ryan, don't freak out."

The man let out a terrified squeak.

"Are we trapped?!"

"I mean, we're not trapped. Technically, only you are," Guy said.

The other curled a lip at him.

"Oh, yes, that makes it all better," Ryan deadpanned.

He looked down at his hands, white cuffs that connected to nothing seemingly affixed to his person, like prison shackles. The man who was just lost in pleasure was now gone in confusion.

"Look, I'll find where you're set up and get you out manually," Guy attempted to assuage him.

The fear etched deeper on Ryan's face as he began to hyperventilate. Guy shifted away awkwardly as the other sniffed and began to cry.

"Don't leave me here alone," he begged hoarsely.

Guy thought hard, and a tissue materialized in his hand. He handed it to the other.

"Um... post-nut clarity hits hard," Guy offered, like words of wisdom during a trying time. "I have to leave. It's the only way to get you out."

Ryan dabbed his eyes and blew his nose.

"Alright, please hurry."

Guy didn't need to be told twice.

"Take me back home," he commanded.

Moments later, he began to pixilate, and he was back in his room. It was that easy. Why couldn't Ryan and the others do it? He scoffed in annoyance, completely puzzled by the dilemma.

Guy crossed the room to his seat.

Well, they would see who was stuck when he found where this clown lived and shook him out of his stupidity soon. He found Ryan's file.

All one thousand trial members were required to offer their personal information, including where they lived, which was where they were instructed to be when they used the toy.

Ryan Matsuyama, age 27.

"Let's see where you live, Ryan," he mused. "Oh, damn."

He lived in Connecticut.

Guy let out a groan. "Of course, you're a fifteen-hour drive away." He grumbled about the other's stupidity as he removed his keys from the hook near his door, shrugging a jacket on before sliding into his black BMW 328i, right next to his red Cadillac CTS V-Sport in the other parking space.

One day soon, he would have his beautiful white Chevrolet Corvette Stingray to fill the empty third space in his garage. He fantasized about it as he rolled out of his gated Brentwood home.

The kenopsia of orderly houses stretched in sloping lines along the wide belt of road, cookie-cutter all the way down with no beginning and no end for as far as his eyes could see.

It sent a shiver up his spine, creepy in its familiarity, filling him with an artificial nostalgia for a place he'd never really known, despite existing there for several years.

The dead silence from the houses as he drove past was palpable through the hush of his tires, the empty spaces between only punctuating the pin-drop quiet all around.

There were signs of life, but there was no one there.

The fantasies of the sweet life he would have prevented him from flying into a rage, when he had to sit behind a grandma driving twenty miles under the speed limit on a narrow shitass back country road.

When he had that Corvette, he'd be beating them off with a stick. His sexual starvation would finally end. How good it would feel, he would drown in ecstasy.

Just like every son of a bitch who was partying at the swinger club he attended once, having fun all around him while they should have been conversing with him.

He blared his horn at Grandma.

"Drive faster, you raggedy old whore!" he yelled, as though she could hear him.

While there wasn't much traffic where he lived, the drivers here were the worst of all time. He whined as the person in front of him slowed to a snail's pace, stopped, then turned at the fork in the same direction he was going on the even narrower and longer road.

Guy turned up his music with a sigh, resigning himself.

His mind began to drift, around halfway to the main road that fed into the highway.

He flashed back to the tangle of arms and legs at the party, watching them all fuck as the room broke into a wild orgy. Guy seethed silently from the corner of the room, face reddened.

They never pulled him in with them!

The partygoers had only given him strange and uncomfortable looks, like he were an alien in an expensive suit. They looked at him with scorn.

Mark pointed out that Guy was never invited when he vented about the situation to him later, that he can't just walk in uninvited and watch voyeuristically.

Mark was wrong. Guy was not a voyer, because he felt no pleasure from watching these fools at all. It enraged him so. He was never given invites, not to parties, not to orgies, not to anywhere.

No one ever talked to him, except the half-naked man passing out poppers. He told him exactly what Mark echoed later, that he was not on the invite list, then threw him off the rooftop into the swimming pool when Guy poured lean over his head in retaliation.

The world was so cruel and cold to him.

Although in retrospect, he had been overdressed for the event.

He monologed to himself as the road rose and the sun dipped on the horizon in stark orange, while You Can Be the Boss by Lana Del Rey played next on his phone.

None of it mattered. All of his struggles would be buried in the past, and he would finally be loved.

Once the world saw his brilliant invention, everyone would regret snubbing him. That's what he had to do, to create something so extraordinary, they would be worshipping him at his feet.

Soon, he would show the world that he was worthy, and he would get everything he deserved, and everyone would see that they were wrong to overlook him.

For now, he had to save an idiot who lived fifteen hours away in a cracker box.

The man who wanted nothing more than to kiss him head to toe and make sweet love to him in the real world, who said he would be heaven to touch, despite knowing his name for four seconds.

Despite not knowing that he was the undisclosed brilliant inventor. (Guy chose to remain anonymous to the trial members until he got the success he so truly deserved.)

Despite not having obtained the adulation from the world just yet, for being a stranger.

For being... some guy.

Guy's hands were white-knuckled around the steering wheel.

The indignation of it all.