Rufus Hex hated hotel rooms.
Strange aversion, for a musician, but then he had spent his formative years in a dormitory, rather than on the road. Upon his becoming more well-known he had become more familiar with them, but had hated them none the less. He despised them whether they were clean with huge smothering comforters, so quiet you could hear the ice rattle in the machine at the end of the hallway, or old ratty ones where the coverings scratched and the AC banged all night long.
This one was pretty, though, with a huge picture window looking out on New York City. And a kitchen and private bath. When he had come in he thought this might, possibly, be the first hotel room he would have liked--for there would have also been a pretty boy in it, barefoot, with neatly pressed shirts, a magically small waist, and bare feet below the immaculate suit.
Instead it was raining, and Rufus was kneeling on the sofa, his tummy pressed into the rough cloth, and listened to Mister Six talking about canceled flights.
"And there's no other way...?" asked Rufus. He brushed his hair out of his eyes as he listened. It was jet black and very long, but the stylists had it dyed deep blue so that in light it shimmered with indigo highlights.
"...but it doesn't really matter," said Mister Six into his ear, "because I'm going to be there for a whole week afterwards..."
Yes but not this day, this time we agreed on. Instead of the vision he had been nursing all day--all week--all the month they had been sending a web of e-mails and texts and late-night phone calls to create a vision, an idea, that Rufus Hex and Mister Six might actually meet in a hotel room and touch one another, become real, he would have to pretend he had more important things in his life, plans, hobbies, and read books whose words he would not even remember the next day. He felt the whole day opening up before him, empty, a wasteland.
"All right", said Rufus, and he could hear every drop of his defeat pressing through those words. "Love you." Press end. He put his arms down on the sofa back and watched it rain.
It was all so fragile, he reflected, these ridiculous assignments. There was no Mister Andre Six. All this time he had been making love to a photograph without seeming to notice...only this one could talk, would tell him how much to drink, how to finger his ass, could whisper all the gluttonous fantasies that would never fail to bring him to orgasm...There had been days he thought he could not live without that voice in his ear. But today, what did he have?
Rufus heaved an immense sigh, miserable with his own stupidity, and flung himself back on the sofa with his arm on his eyes. He should have known better. These things seemed so simple--Mister Six would move from one point to another, and the two would meet, point A and point R, when in reality it was just another torment.
Rufus had unbuttoned his shirt in his privacy and anticipation, and realized he had been unconsciously tracing his soft nipples. They were large, each with a nip of softness underneath them....not moobs, but proof his stockiness wasn't all just broad shoulders. His skin was perfect, an almost phosphorescent white, which had somehow come out along with his pure black hair and sleepy blue eyes, with their girlishly long lashes. He fervently wished that it was not his own broad hands touching his nipples, and that made him rub them until they became hard. He traced the scar around one of them, followed the spiral down his chest and then to his tummy, which made him smile. Unlike most pop singers, Rufus had no abs, just a gentle rounding below his pectorals. Around the height of his navel it became more pronounced, a soft bulge of tummy, and he remembered the gasp of joy he'd heard when he had taken off his shirt for the first time in front of Mister Six, modeling for him in front of the webcam.
Rufus grinned without realizing he was doing so. That was the power that Andre Six had over him, that even in his disappointment, even when he wanted to throw his laptop across the room in his frustration, just the idea of him could get him off. Rufus curved his back slightly, pushed out his stomach muscles, and ran his broad hand down his belly, caressing. There was something special about that curve, something so delightful in the feeling of soft, delicate flesh that was a secret key to all his lust. He pulled his tummy in, pressed it out, began to rub a little harder, faster.
His phone throbbed in his hand. Check e-mail, it said.
Andre Six to me:
virgin sucks ass.
but i don't want you to have a sad birthday. and, actually, one of your presents was supposed to come today. but since i can't be there, i thought sending you an e-mail would be best.
Happy Birthday, Rufus: i got you a tummy fluffer!
"A what?" said Rufus, though there was no one to hear him. He had learned a lot of words from Mister Six in the six months that they had been emailing each other, such as feeder, feedee, stuffing, and inflation (though Rufus felt like he had never quite been able to get over that last one.) Still, this word was entirely unknown to him.
as far as i can tell, she's the first of her kind. but she's something you'll really like. she's quiet and adorable, and will help you with whatever you want, but she says she likes boy's bellies best. i've told her your likes and dislikes and she should come prepared to cater to them. she's a good masseuse.
she told me she liked boys with black hair, blue eyes, "and I like it if they're taller than me they should have a little bit of a tummy." now, who does that sound like?
her name is Molly Ren, but she likes to be called "kitten".
The attached picture was of a very curvy lady, dressed in a corset and with some very frilly underthings on. She had curly hair. Rufus couldn't tell much more about her, however, because the main focus of the photo was her behind.
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More to come! Part 2 is now here!
