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The Perils of Praline
by Marshall Thornton

Category: Erotica/Erotic Romance/Humor
Description: When he falls in love with a contestant on a reality TV show, Peter "Praline" Palmetier decides to leave his home in rural Georgia and, failing to realize this might be considered stalking, travels to Hollywood to find his soul mate, Dave G. Once in tinsel-town he meets a collection of startling, and often horny, characters in his quest. They include a studly steward, a conservative talk show host, the Godfather of the Gay Mafia, and casting assistant Jason Friedman, who always manages to be there in time to save Praline from total disaster. Will Praline find love with the illusive Dave G., or will he recognize the charms of appealing but untelegenic Jason?
eBook Publisher: MLR Press, LLC/mlrpress,
eBookwise Release Date: November 2010

eBookeBook

6 Reader Ratings:
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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [300 KB]
Words: 65139
Reading time: 186-260 min.


Chapter One

In which our hero arrives in Hollywood and is instantly debauched.

Praline Palmetier decided to move to Hollywood while watching an all-day marathon of the reality TV show House-Bound, Season Six. It wasn't that he fell in love with the stately palm trees and sandy beaches shown during the opening credits, or the trendy bars where contestants drank too much, or even the ever-present possibility of seeing a movie star around each corner. No, Praline fell in love with contestant number five, Dave G.

Had he been asked to describe the ultimate human specimen, Praline would have described Dave G. The young man was tall--or at least appeared so on television--with velvet brown hair and smoky gray eyes. Though he was not overly muscled, he was clearly athletic. In one episode he'd worn a thong that had shown off his body, including a delicious stream of dark hair running from just above his belly button downward. In short, Dave G. was absolute perfection.

It wasn't that Praline decided to move to California without angst. He'd been angsting most of the summer. Having graduated with an Associate of Arts Degree in Communications from Laccacoochee Technical College, he had no further plans--no career goals, no special calling, and definitely no aspirations for additional schooling, as he had attained a less than stellar 2.2 GPA. Somewhat anxiously, he spent his nights making Mocha Lattes at a sci-fi coffee shop called Java the Hut, and his days loitering on his mother's sofa, which was where he sat--well, slouched actually--watching the special House-Bound, Season Six reunion episode, when on came a commercial for the bestselling book, The Key.

The commercial claimed that all you had to do to succeed in love was imagine down to the tiniest detail exactly what and exactly who you wanted to love you and it would come true, stunningly and amazingly true--especially if you bought the book.

But there wasn't any need to buy the book, thought Praline. He had just spent most of his summer imagining down to the minutest detail what life would be like with Dave G. In fact, he'd concentrated so hard, so many times, that Praline was sure if he ever happened to meet Dave G. they'd fall instantly and irrevocably in love. And that's when he realized he had to go to Hollywood, as soon as possible.

When he told his mother about his plan, she nearly burst a vocal cord screaming, "Criminy Jickets!" As an upstanding Christian woman, Robin Palmetier refused to take the Lord's name in vain. "Praline, you cannot move to California! It is the most sinful, most dangerous, most seductive place on this entire planet!"

And then, in order to avoid a full-on conniption, she lit a joint.

Sitting crossed-legged on the living room floor, Praline waited as his mother pulled marijuana smoke deep into her lungs. At twenty, our charming hero had floppy, almost-naturally blond hair and crystal blue eyes. Inviting, sensuous lips sat above a wide jaw with the tiniest dimple in the center of its square chin. He had an open smile, pale skin that flushed quickly, a sprinkle of freckles on his perfect nose, and an ass that was so exceptionally round, and protruded so far out behind him, that he was mortified by the very idea of it.

His mama finally exhaled. "Is it because I gave your room to your step-daddy, Spliff, to grow his special Ganja Gold?"

"No, Mama, I don't mind sleeping on the couch," Praline assured her. And he didn't mind, though the couch was lumpy, narrow, and smelled like a bong.

Shortly after Praline was born, his unmarried teenage mother completed five weeks of a six-month cosmetology course and began making a few bucks styling her friends' hair in her pink and turquoise kitchen. She made many more bucks selling those same friends various mood-altering substances, mostly marijuana but occasionally a tab or two of ecstasy.

After a slight hesitation, Praline blurted, "I'm going to Hollywood because I'm in love!"

Robin screamed again, this time for an entirely different reason. "Why didn't you say so? That's wonderful, darlin'. What's her name?"

"Actually, his name is Dave G. and he's on a TV show called House-Bound. He's totally amazing."

Praline nervously awaited her response. He hadn't meant to wait until he was twenty years old to come out to his mother. It's just that this was the first time he'd been in love. It was one thing to tell his mother he'd found the love of his life, and quite another to explain that an attractive older gentleman had once given him a blowjob in an antique-filled condominium and he'd thoroughly enjoyed it.

It took Robin about twenty seconds to adapt to her son's coming out. While she knew her mega-pastor would not be pleased, she found it difficult to deny Praline the same God who'd so often looked the other way when it came to her own life.

"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit," she said. "How'd you meet him?"

"Oh, I haven't met him," Praline explained. "That's why I have to go to Hollywood. So we can meet."

"You haven't met?" His mama looked confused, and not just because she was stoned. "You mean, y'all been typing back and forth on the computer? That's the new thing isn't--"

"No, I mean we haven't met. I fell in love with Dave G. while watching his TV show."

"Are you telling me you're gonna leave your mama and every little thing you've ever known to traipse across this big ole country after a man you've only ever seen on a TV show?"

Wow, Praline thought, she certainly put a negative spin on that. Maybe she wasn't quite as comfortable with his being gay as she seemed.

"Do you really think this is a good idea?" she continued, pinching off her joint.

"Why, Mama, you raised me to follow my heart no matter what," Praline explained. "That's exactly what I'm doing."

"Yes, but..." Finding herself cornered by her own parenting-style, Robin brushed a few ashes off her ample bosom and lost the conversational thread. "Darlin', do we have any of them jalapeno-flavored potato chips left? I've got the munchies."

And so, the day after he told his mother about his plan, Praline asked her to drive him the two and one quarter hours from Lumpkinville to the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. As they bounced along in his mother's ancient F150, he watched as she fidgeted with a tuft of cherry red hair over her right eye. He knew that meant she was about to launch into a lecture, or at least offer some pointed advice. Whenever his mother wanted to channel her inner parent, she always played with her hair first.

"I want you to be careful. California is not the kind of place you're used to. Things are different out there. Dangerous. Very dangerous."

And then she listed the dangers he should avoid when he got to Hollywood, including, but not limited to: fad starvation diets, eco-terrorists, over-exposure to the sun, roving limousine liberals, felonious celebrities, Godless pagans, and, of course, the lay-about homeless living off the public dime.

When she got revved up she could go on and on, so Praline began to think about what lay before him. On the Internet, he'd learned that Dave G. lived in Los Angeles, read his horoscope every day--Aries--was an aspiring actor, and on weekends worked as a cater-waiter.

"...and I don't want to hear a thing about you taking up surfing. I saw a news report about how people fall off and get hit in the head by their very own boards while sharks lurk nearby waiting for just that eventuality."

"Yes, ma'am."

Dave G. was rumored to be dating one of his House-Bound co-stars, Bree. Praline doubted the sincerity of their shomance. It just didn't seem possible that having found his soul mate, Praline could lose him to a girl who once drank so many Mojitos she threw up in a fellow cast-mate's Juicy Couture handbag. Clearly, the relationship had been concocted by the show's producers.

"...and if anyone asks you to join a gang you say, 'No thank you very much. I'm just not a joiner.' And then run like heck..."

"Yes, ma'am."

In Praline's mind, the really terrific thing about finding Dave G. was that it also solved the nagging question of a career. Celebrity spouse was exactly the arena he could excel in; it required good looks, red-carpet skills and unwavering enthusiasm (both public and private). He was totally qualified.

"...and whatever you do stay away from cults. There are all sorts of nutty cults out there in Lala Land. Crazy people believing in aliens and spaceships."

"Mama, you believe in aliens and spaceships."

"Yes, but I believe in Jesus, too. That makes it different."

"Yes, ma'am."

At airport security, Praline squeezed his mother tightly. She squeezed back for just a moment then pushed him away. "You better go. You stand here much longer and my mascara's gonna end up all over my face. You don't want your mama looking like some ol' raccoon."

Praline headed through security. As he took off his shoes to run them through the X-ray machine, he turned to take a last look at his mother hovering just outside the security checkpoint. She was readjusting her cherry red hair. With a lump in his throat, Praline wondered what color his mama's hair would be the next time he saw her.

Suddenly she yelled, "You be a good boy, Praline! And don't forget the Ten Commandments!"

Praline had grown up with the Ten Commandments, but it wasn't until he was eighteen he realized the Ten Commandments his mother taught him were not the same as those in the Bible. An Internet search on a rainy afternoon had taught him that. And, having taken a long look at the more traditional list, he determined his mother's ten to be much more practical.

The Ten Commandments As Interpreted by Robin Palmetier

Don't lie. Unless it's to the police.

Don't cheat your customers. Robin always made sure her dime bags were just a bit larger than any other dealers' in the area, insuring loyalty in her clientele.

Always be polite. Especially to people who don't like you, as it will piss them off.

Don't steal from anyone. Anyone meaning people, leaving corporations and the IRS fair game.

Don't kill. This one was also on the Bible's list but, like many Christians, Robin had a long list of exceptions to this rule. It was okay to kill sexual predators (unless they were born-again while serving time), liberal commentators, and anyone described as a "bad guy" by the greatest journalist and political leader of all time, Box News commentator Malcolm Wright. Unless, of course, Mr. Wright happened to be talking about one of her personal friends, which, on occasion, he had.

Do not take the Lord's name in vein. Shit, fuck, cock, pussy, bitch, bastard and their ilk were just fine. Goddamn's and Jesus Christ's were no-no's.

Always repay a favor with a favor. Someone does something nice for you, do something nice right back. Being in someone's debt is a dangerous thing.

Affirm that every word in the Bible is true, except the parts that clearly aren't. Like that thing about eating shellfish--though supposedly an abomination on par with adultery, murder, poly-cotton blends and paying interest on a mortgage--it could not possibly be God's will. Robin loved scallops and knew the good Lord would not wish to deny her this pleasure.

Discuss all decisions with God directly and listen closely to his advice. Sadly, when Praline tried this himself he got nothing but an extended silence, while his mother always seemed to get very detailed instructions.

Always remember your mama loves you.

After a final wave, Praline put on his shoes and headed toward the Econo-Air gate where his flight was already boarding. Squeezing himself down the narrow aisle, Praline remembered his manners but found it nearly impossible to say "hey" to every single person on the plane, though he did his best.

"My," he said to no one in particular, "this is a large airplane." And though he had no frame of reference, he was right.

When he found seat 35G, he stowed his duffle in the overhead compartment and pushed his backpack under the seat in front of him. Then, to be polite, he helped the passengers around him with their luggage, even though it eventually earned him a dirty look from the stewardess and a frosty, "Sir, if you could be seated."

As Praline took his seat, he couldn't help but ponder how much life was like a reality TV show. Perhaps not as interesting--since there was a distinct lack of editing--but similar all the same. Why, he wouldn't be at all surprised if they "crashed" on some desert island only to have a handsome host leap out of the bush and set them to difficult and competitive tasks. Praline wondered if it did really happen, who would he ally with? The elderly man growling snappishly at his younger wife? The Asian woman wearing far too much gold jewelry? Or the pale young woman trying to shove a twenty-five pound smoked ham into the overhead compartment?

Just then, a very attractive man wearing a uniform of tight blue slacks, a periwinkle-striped shirt, and a bright plastic nametag that declared STEWART caught Praline's attention. Standing in the aisle, Stewart held a safety card in his hand so that everyone could see it while the stewardess spoke over the P.A. system.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman, and welcome to Econo-Air flight 345. My name is Shelly and I'll be flying with you today, along with flight attendants Todd and Stewart."

Instead of paying attention to what was being said, Praline studied Stewart. He was tall and slender, had dark eyes with long thick eyelashes, a mouth set in a permanent pout and a large, attention-stealing mound in his polyester pants. Stewart put down the safety card and held up an abbreviated seatbelt to show the passengers how it worked.

Over the intercom, Shelly continued, "For those of you who would like to use a seatbelt during our fight there will be an extra twenty-five dollar charge. At this time, I'd like to remind you that seatbelt use is federally mandated whenever the seatbelt light is on."

On cue, the seatbelt light popped on.

Flight attendants Todd and Stewart moved up and down the aisle collecting the fee. Praline, who only had six hundred and eight dollars cash and a credit card his mama had given him to establish himself in Los Angeles, was relieved he'd chosen Econo-Air. Paying extra for a seatbelt would have been very upsetting if he'd flown on one of the more expensive airlines.

Stewart reached out to accept the cash Praline offered. "And where might you be going?" he asked.

"Hollywood, California," replied Praline.

"End of the line," the steward said with a broad, suggestive smile. "Well, don't worry, we've only got three stops on this flight so we might actually get to Los Angeles today."

Just then the pilot requested that the flight attendants prepare for take off. Stewart plopped down in the empty seat next to Praline and said, "Looks like it's you and me, kid." He leaned very close, enveloping Praline in a cloud of woody aftershave. "So...you're on your way to California. Where are you coming from?"

"Lumpkinville, Georgia."

"Sounds charming," Stewart said. "Flying all the way across country like this...you must be the adventurous type."

"I am!" replied Praline. "I am the adventurous type!" Though, until that very moment, he'd never thought of himself in exactly that way.

Stewart smiled at him as though Praline had just given the correct answer on a game show, "What's your name, sweetie?"

"Praline Palmetier."

"Praline? I love Southern names. They're always so clever." Buckling his seatbelt, Stewart asked, "Is it some kind of family name?"

"Not exactly. Though family members were involved," Praline replied. "It was given to me by my second step-daddy or maybe my third, I was practically an infant at the time so I'm not entirely sure, and my mama likes to forget about my step-daddies the minute they're gone so she has no idea. Anyway, my step-daddy, whichever one, had received a pound of pralines as partial payment for a dime...um, some goods he'd delivered. So, he and my mama were saving the pralines for when they got the mmm...hungry, when they got hungry."

Praline suddenly realized this story was much easier to tell when everyone in the room was stoned or at least knew how his mother made her living.

"Well, while they were working up an appetite. I got my little hands on that pound of pralines and ate pretty much the whole thing. They found me sitting on the kitchen floor with a thick layer of buttery candy all over my face. My mama always says she couldn't tell where the candy ended and where I began. After that everyone started calling me Praline. And, since, I've got sort of a sweet tooth, it stuck. My real name is Peter." He rolled his eyes at his own name.

"Well, Praline is a perfect nickname," Stewart said. "You're certainly a luscious little morsel."

Tickled by the flattery, Praline was suddenly at a loss for words. Blushing deeply, he sputtered a few syllables that approximated, "Thank you."

Just then the plane began to hurl itself down the runway. Praline was pressed back into his seat and suddenly became aware of each thud and clank the plane made as it slowly lifted off. Logically, he understood air travel was completely possible. Emotionally, he found the idea of an enormous, tremendously heavy metal object filled with people propelling itself through the sky for thousands of miles completely improbable.

In times of stress his aforementioned sweet tooth asserted itself, and whether because of his newly discovered fear of flying, the pass that Stewart had just made at him, or simply his leaving home for the very first time, Praline found himself longing for not only pralines, but butterscotch brownies, peppermint patties and white chocolate chip cookies.

"Y'all have any candy on this plane?" he asked, grasping the arms of his seat tightly.

"I'll check when I have a chance," Stewart promised. "So, what's in Los Angeles?"

"A guy," Praline admitted.

"Ooooo...sounds serious. Is he meeting you at the airport?"

Ignoring the frightening bangs, clangs and various other thunks the plane continued to make as it chugged into the sky, Praline explained to Stewart that he and Dave G. hadn't actually met, and showed him part of an episode of House-Bound he'd downloaded onto his smartphone.

"Oh, you're right, he is hot," gushed Stewart.

"And sincere and honest and, well, just the greatest," Praline added.

Eventually, when it seemed the plane was not likely to fall out of the sky, Praline relaxed and settled back into his seat. Stewart had gone off with the other flight attendants to sell boxed lunches and drinks.

To entertain himself he watched a few episodes of House-Bound, Season Six. First his favorite, the one where Dave G. took a private pole-dancing lesson from Elizabeth Berkley. His second favorite, where Dave G. wore a Speedo in the hot tub, then later in that same episode mud wrestled with his fellow contestants to see who would "rule the roost." And, finally, his third favorite, the one where Dave G. (a committed multi-culturalist) almost got into a fight with Tyroon (the angry black guy) after Tyroon called Zander (the outrageously gay guy) a "fruit fly."

Praline had drifted off into dreams of Dave G. when a bag of M&M's suddenly landed in his lap. Springing awake, he looked up to see where it had come from, and found Stewart leaning over the seat. "It's on me..."

"Gee, thanks," Praline said.

"You know what I was thinking..." Stewart paused dramatically as though he expected Praline to guess. "You need someone to show you around L.A."

"Is it that confusing? I have GPS on my phone..."

"Oh, that won't help. L.A. is a nightmare. Trust me, it's my home base. I know." With a smile, Stewart added, "I could show you around."

"Really? You would do that?" Praline asked.

"You and I are going to have a ball," Stewart purred, and then went back to his stewarding duties.

Shortly after midnight, Praline waited for Stewart outside airport security. He couldn't help but be pleased with the way things were working out. He'd barely even gotten to Los Angeles and he had a guide and possibly a place to stay. As his mama always said, "If you look out for the sunny side of the street, the sunny side of the street will look out for you."

When Stewart was finally finished, they took a shuttle to parking, picked up his brand new Mercedes convertible, and were quickly on their way to his condo in West Hollywood. Driving across the sprawling city, Stewart pointed out various sights as they zipped through several different areas: Venice, Santa Monica, Culver City.

Praline was thrilled by it all. While they were still in the air, he'd seen the lights spread out below them as far as the eye could see. Now on the ground, those same bright lights sped by as they drove down Santa Monica Boulevard. They drove through fabled Beverly Hills and into famously gay West Hollywood. Even though it was late, the streets were full of men looking for love.

"West Hollywood is like one big Wally-mart," Stewart said archly. "It offers a large selection of very cheap men, most of whom require assembly."

Praline wasn't sure what to make of that remark. Stewart said Wally-Mart like it was a bad thing, but Praline loved big box stores. And a big box store full of gay men would be heaven.

Eventually, they turned a corner, then another, and zipped up a steep hill. Atop the hill sat a curvy white high-rise of about twenty stories. Stewart hit a remote attached to the visor and an iron gate slid open to reveal a subterranean garage.

After an elevator ride to the fourteenth floor, Stewart unlocked the door to 1406 and stepped aside so Praline could enter. Inside, everything was white: the walls, the carpet, even the furniture. Windows ran the length of the living room, giving a view of Los Angeles that was so spectacular Praline almost didn't notice the fist-sized hole in the wall next to the entryway.

"I keep meaning to put a picture over that," Stewart said regarding the hole. "Little accident while we were moving in."

"Oh, do you have a roommate?"

"Yeah, I do. He's out of town." Stewart smiled and added, "Won't be back until tomorrow night. So we're all alone."

Praline giggled nervously.

"I bet you need to freshen up after all that traveling," Stewart said. "Would you like to take a shower?"

"I sure would," said Praline. "I feel like a toxic waste dump." Then, to indicate he had some authority in the matter added, "Back home, we had one right next to my high school. Dew Chemical wanted to put it next to the elementary school but people wouldn't stand for it."

Stewart chuckled as though Praline had just told a joke and led him to the bathroom. It was amazing. Praline thought it looked just like something out of Momentous Home Makeovers--his fourth favorite show after House-Bound, Hollywood Hospital and Forensic Victims Unit. There were tiny, amber-colored glass tiles everywhere, a pristine glass enclosed shower, and a separate spa-tub. On a set of shelves over the tub sat half a dozen thick, creamy towels. While Praline gaped at the room, Stewart lit half a dozen votive candles and smiled at Praline. "Enjoy," he said, and then left the room.

As Praline took his clothes off, he wondered if his new friend might be able to help him find Dave G. Since he didn't know Dave G.'s full last name, he hadn't been able to locate a phone number or an address for him, even though he'd tried several of the online phone directories. He'd found the number for the production office of House-Bound, but no matter that he explained the situation honestly and sincerely, they had rudely refused to give out any information about Dave G.

Praline stepped into the shower enclosure and turned on the water. Hopefully, Stewart would have ideas. Maybe there was a particular bar where reality TV stars hung out? And maybe Stewart would take him there tomorrow night? And maybe, just maybe, Dave G. would walk in and their eyes would meet, their hearts flutter, and their life together would begin.

Just the thought of Dave G. began to give Praline an erection. He had to think about something else and quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was get swept away by thoughts of Dave G. and end up jerking off in Stewart's shower. He was a regular reader of Miss Etiquette's blog, and though he was sure she'd never written about it, he just knew masturbating in your host's shower was impolite.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Praline shampooed his hair, trying to keep the soap out of his eyes. Suddenly, the glass door popped open and Praline turned to see a naked Stewart stepping into the shower with him.

With a big smile, Stewart said, "You know what? I feel like a toxic waste dump myself. Would you like to soap me up?"

Briefly, Praline considered saying "No, thank you." He was, after all, deeply in love with Dave G. Of course, he and Dave G. had never sat down and had a conversation about monogamy--since they'd never sat down and had any kind of conversation.

In fact, he had no idea how Dave G. might feel about monogamy. He might be the kind of guy who, recognizing that men were men, would be interested in a more open relationship. Given that Praline was only twenty and had the minimal sexual experience available in rural Georgia, he might not mind. At any rate, he and Dave G. currently had no ties on each other no matter what they might negotiate in the future, and since Stewart was there, and attractive, and had a very large hard-on bouncing against Praline's thigh that was, in turn, giving Praline an erection of his own--why not?

Stewart pulled him under the showerhead and kissed him. Their soapy, slippery bodies rubbed together, and Praline, with thoughts of Dave G. still dancing in his head, gave himself to the kiss. With his tongue, Stewart explored Praline's mouth as though he'd misplaced something in there, something of great sentimental value.

Praline ran his hands across Stewart's wide shoulders, down his thick arms, slipping them around his waist. It was wonderful to hold a man in his arms, even a man he barely knew. He reached down and took Stewart's cock in his hands; it was big and hefty, requiring a two-handed approach. He was about to go down on his knees and suck it when Stewart spun him around and pushed him against the tiled wall. He slipped his hand into the soapy crack of Praline's ass.

"This has to be the most amazing ass I've ever seen," he said.

"It's just--big," Praline replied, blushing. Though he appreciated Stewart's lying about his disproportionate derriere.

"Oh, no, it's perfect, it's..." Whatever Stewart said next was lost as he stuck his face between Praline's ass cheeks.

Stewart's tongue tickled at Praline's delicate rosebud, sending shivers through the boy. This went on for quite some time, leaving Praline limp and moaning. Then Stewart slipped his index finger inside and expertly found his prostate. Praline nearly jumped out of his skin. For a few delicious minutes, Stewart rubbed the prostate with a gentle, circular motion, causing Praline to whimper and gasp.

When the motion abruptly stopped, a disappointed Praline looked over his shoulder to investigate. Stewart looked up at him and giggled. He'd balanced a bar of soap on top of one of Praline's ass cheeks and it was staying there! "That is just so amazing," he said.

Horrified, Praline wiggled just enough to knock off the bar of soap.

"Ah, you spoiled my fun," Stewart complained. "Okay, we're getting soggy. Time to go into the bedroom."

Dicks wagging in front of them, they walked from the bathroom to the bedroom. Praline kept his eyes on Stewart's thick cock, planning to inspect it close up very soon. He tried not to notice that there was another hole in the wall next to the bed and that the lamp on the nightstand had been badly broken--though it still worked, it tilted sharply to the left.

Next to the lamp sat a photo of Stewart with a thickly muscled man of about forty-five, whose hair plugs and overly hip clothing suggested he refused to admit he was a day past thirty. Stewart noticed Praline looking at the photo, and turned it face down on the nightstand. "We don't want my roommate staring at us while we play, now do we?"

"You must be awfully close," Praline said, and not just because of the bedside photo; it seemed to be a one-bedroom condominium. He would have given this more thought, but his attention was drawn to several adult toys spread out on a latex sheet.

Proudly, Stewart picked up the longest of three dildos. It was an angry red and about a foot and a half long. He held the dildo up in the air and asked, "Do you know what this is, little boy?"

Of course, Praline knew what it was and said so. He'd heard plenty about dildos growing up--the boys at his high school used "dildo-breath" as an endearment and, of course, he'd seen many, many dildos (JPEGs, that is). However, he'd never seen one quite like this. In addition to being long and red, it had a penis molded onto each end.

"And do you know what we're going to do with it?" Stewart asked in a low, honeyed voice. Well, yes, Praline had some idea. Though he was curious as to exactly how it might work.

Too excited to wait for an answer, Stewart swept the other toys away and jumped onto the latex sheet. Getting on all fours, he instructed Praline to get behind him and do the same. Spreading lube on both ends of the dildo, he inserted one end into his ass, giving out a low, raspy moan as he did so.

"Put the other end into your ass," he said breathlessly.

Praline hesitated. Did he want to do this? He wasn't sure. It was a rather large dildo, after all. And he'd never done anything like this before. But then he remembered that he'd recently learned he was the adventurous type and this happened to be exactly the kind of thing adventurous people did.

He climbed onto the bed and slipped the dildo into his ass.

"Now back your butt up toward mine," Stewart said.

Backing up, Praline felt the dildo slide deeper into his ass. The phallus pressed against his prostate in a stimulating way. Stewart started rocking back and forth, which eased the dildo out a bit, then pushed it back in, seeming to go further in with each push. Gently pushing against Praline's sweet spot each time. Too gently, actually.

After a bit, Stewart seemed to tire of their position. He twisted around and took hold of the dildo with one hand and then jack-hammered it back and forth. Praline moaned rhythmically. "Ah, ah, ha, AH, ah, ah, ha, AH!" This was much more to our acquiescent hero's liking.

"Man, this is so hot," Stewart gasped, and stopped what he was doing. Praline caught his breath and was about to request a little more jack-hammering, when Stewart told him to turn over onto his back.

Once on their backs, they intertwined their legs so as to get their butts close enough to slip the dildo back in. Stewart lifted his hips and began to buck back and forth. Meanwhile, Praline couldn't help thinking, even though he was rock hard and totally turned on, that he might be having more fun if they put the dildo aside and Stewart just fucked him. Or maybe he could fuck Stewart. Either way. He wasn't picky about such things.

Though the double-headed apparatus was effective, Praline felt disconnected, staring at the ceiling and wiggling his hips back and forth. Stewart moaned loudly, but other than their legs wrapped around each other they weren't even touching anymore. It occurred to him that this might not be the best way to get to know a person.

Praline hoped Stewart would tire of the novelty item, pull it out, and stick his big, chubby dick into him instead. It would be deliciously warm, and he could look up into Stewart's pretty eyes while being aggressively pumped. Just as Praline was hoping for this, he hoped a little too hard, and, without planning to, came in three great bursts. Stewart caught on and, with a few rapid thrusts of the dildo, also came.

Bellies splattered, they lay panting on the bed. Then, after pulling the dildo out of their butts with a double pop, Stewart sat up.

"Wasn't that amazing?" he asked. "It's like we were feeling the same thing at exactly the same time."

"Yeah, it was great," Praline agreed and, fantasies aside, it had been great.

Unexpectedly, they heard the sound of a slamming door. Stewart jumped up and said, "Oh my God, my husband's home. Shit. He said he wasn't coming back until tomorrow night. You have to get out of here. He's insanely jealous."

Always a bit slow after an orgasm, Praline gaped at Stewart. "Husband? You said roommate."

"I didn't want to ruin the mood." Stewart grabbed the young man and pulled him off the bed. "You have to go!"

"Go where?" It was a reasonable question. Praline was pretty certain there was only one entrance to the apartment and Stewart's husband had just come through it.

Stewart slid open a glass door to the bedroom's balcony. A man's Eastern European-accented voice called out, "Baby, you here? You husband home now!"

"Just a minute, sweetie," Stewart called out. Then he gave Praline a hard push onto the balcony. Had he had time to investigate, Praline would have seen that the balcony was a kind of graveyard for rejected exercise equipment. There was an exercise bike, a flimsy treadmill and a mail-order home gym. But he didn't have time, instead he took a giant step backward attempting to regain his balance and landed square on an abandoned mini-trampoline that propelled him up and over the balcony's railing.

With arms flying willy-nilly, he desperately reached for something, anything to halt his trajectory. As he tipped over the balcony, his hands grabbed hold of the wrought iron posts that held up the railing. He slid down them and came to a painful stop, his eyes at floor level.

Peeking his nose over the edge onto the balcony, Praline saw that Stewart had closed the bedroom drapes. He was about to scream for help, when the booming, heavily accented voice of Stewart's husband stopped him. "What the fuck going on? Whore! Pig whore!"

Before Stewart was able to respond, a loud crashing sound suggested the flight attendant had been thrown across the room. Even though his situation was precarious, Praline decided to wait a bit before screaming. Then, he looked down at the quiet city street fourteen floors below and began to crave his mama's shoo fly pie.


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