Project William


By Also_KnownAs

"Good evening, Paul. My name is Jackson."

I didn't have time to pick my jaw up off the floor before he leaned forward, placed his broad and sensuously soft lips against my mouth and kissed me so completely that I could feel my toes curl. He smelled like sex and power. If his mouth hinted at what the rest of him was capable of, I was going to fall very deeply in lust with this man. Not to mention that he looked exactly, and I do mean exactly, as the doctor ordered.

I kept my eyes open and he did too, so I could watch his ice blue eyes gaze so deeply into mine that I thought he could see my soul. All I saw in his was desire. Desire and sensuality and potency. It was coming off him in waves.

He broke off the kiss and smiled. Night became day. The lean, beautiful, sculpted lines of his face softened into something so human, so male, so warm and welcoming that I couldn't think of anything for a moment. I was simply overwhelmed by him. "Thank you for choosing me."

"No problem." My voice sounded like it was coming from miles away.

"May I come in?"

"Oh. Shit. Yes! Of course, I'm sorry."

His smile quirked sideways, creating a dimple exactly where it should be. "No problem," he echoed. He filled the doorway as he entered. He moved past me, and the back of his hand brushed my ass. The touch was gentle, so slight that I might otherwise have ignored it. But it felt like an electric shock made of pure sex has just touched me.

This, I was telling myself dimly through the screams of want and need, was impossible. My excitement, sexual and otherwise, was at a fever pitch. I wanted the man so, so bad.

The fantasies you make up in your head are not supposed to arrive at 6PM sharp. They're not supposed to turn up in the flesh, smelling like you never knew you wanted them to, kissing you and teasing your butt. They're supposed to appear when you close your eyes, not when you open your door.

"You look good, Paul," he said. His voice rattled the tempered glass shelving in the entertainment center. He was taking off his overcoat. I watched his shoulders roll and swell, and then I saw an ass, breathtaking in its shape, a round, smooth, beautiful butt clothed in the sheer whisper of gray linen slacks. The sort of ass that would make a dead lesbian wetter than the Pacific. An ass that inspires poets and artists to create works of such beauty in reflection of the male form that the gods themselves weep that they do not possess such a tool. He did not appear to be teasing me in the way that some men do. The way that some men who own such an ass, and are perfectly aware of it, and are further equally aware of its affect on the male of the species, pose and strut and show off their ass like a prize.

No, he was so comfortable, so self confident, that the perfect ass before me was simply another aspect of his overwhelming beauty. As if he had no idea how perfectly beautiful his round, firm butt was, even though he must have chosen those pants to ride across and under and between the lickable globes because they outlined the asset so well that it appeared that they were painted onto it.

I was getting very hard, indeed.

He tossed his coat on the Eames ottoman and wandered across the rug to the far side of the room. His movements were sensual, self- assured, an illustration of his power and strength. I was in terrible, terrible danger.

If you've never been in a situation where you've been faced with your ultimate fantasy, maybe you can't understand what I was feeling. It is a place where hard reality and sparkling, nebulous, soft non- reality collide and for a few minutes, nothing seems real. You start wondering if you actually fell asleep and that everything that's happening isn't happening at all.

Was Jackson real? Was that kiss real? Was his hand, were his fingers, was that light, tempting touch on my ass... real?

Rather than feeling exhilarated, I started to wonder whether he was up to this. I started feeling a little scared, like I couldn't possibly meet this guy's standards. I mean, sure he was everything I asked for. It was uncanny how much he was everything I asked for.

It was scary. The man in my home, walking across the carpet with his swaying hips and perfect ass and wide, strong shoulders had stepped out of my dreams. I was faced with everything I ever dreamed of and he was here, tonight, for me, in the flesh. In the muscled, smooth, silken, furry flesh.

And I was no longer as hard.

"This is a beautiful home, Paul."

His thunder rolled across the landscape to my ears, licking them. I said, "Thanks." He was silhouetted against the candlelight flickering all around him. His torso had such an impressive collection of muscles that it looked as if he were wearing some yard-wide padding in his shoulders, and his waist was cinched with a 28-inch belt. But I knew the truth. Because I had defined it.

It was all him. All Jackson. All muscle and might and brawn and beauty.

"Is there something wrong?" I could see his teeth gleaming. He was smiling. He knew what I was experiencing. I knew that somehow. He knew what I was thinking, why I was being so quiet and uncharacteristically coy.

And why wouldn't he? Imagine going through life a fantasy made flesh. Imagine the reactions you'd get shopping at Safeway. Or pulling up to the window at Burger King to get your BK Broiler. Or exiting your car in the parking lot, walking toward the mall to pick up another pair of tiny 2-Xist briefs that can barely contain your mammoth appendage, the huge, thick tool you've been growing since hair began sprouting under your arms. You made it through high school, walking through the locker room exhibiting your collection of raw talent for anyone who wanted to look.

You kept getting bigger, taller, stronger. You noticed that the guys weren't. You also noticed that you were looking at the other guys and doing more than measuring yourself against them. You were drawn to them, to their muscled legs, their bulging arms, the hair on their chests and chins. You weren't less of a man than the guys who liked girls. If anything, you felt super masculine, so filled with the juices of man that you were bursting with it, needed more of it, thirsted for the smells of men, the feel of them, their strength and sweat and beauty.

You built on what you had, glorying in your own strength and beauty. Honing your perfection, building your muscle, becoming that fantasy made flesh.

All of that occurred to me in a moment. It, too, was part of the fantasy. It excited me, reignited me. There was something about Jackson that went beyond the pretty boys dancing on the bars or the beautiful men roaming Miami in their perfect bodies posing in underwear ads. They had only a piece of what Jackson owned lock, stock and barrel.

"It's a bit overwhelming." I was still standing near the open front door.

"It?" His tone was amused. Sexy, too, the fucker.


"I understand." The words caressed me, comforted me, surrounded me in his powerful presence.

I closed the door. The skin of his arms, the cabled beauty, was glowing like burnished bronze in the candlelight. "I didn't really expect... I mean, William was certainly amazing to look at, but I didn't think that everything I..." He starting walking toward him, and my mind blanked.

"Everything you...?" He looked even better coming than going. He was wearing a white T-shirt stretched across his chest. His nipples were poking against the material like party hats. It clung to his rippled belly like a paint job. He had pleated gray slacks and those pleats were for more than appearance. He needed that extra material to hold in all his equipment.

"When I was filling out the questionnaire, I honestly didn't think that everything I wanted could... that any man was..."

He continued walking toward me. His grin was lascivious, inviting, knowing. "I really enjoyed speaking with you today, Paul." He was standing next to me. He was exactly my height and I'm six-one, but he was so much broader, so much larger that he seemed to tower over me. But his face, his gorgeous face was right in front of me, eye to eye, mouth to mouth. He was so wide that he blocked the candlelight. "I think I've been looking forward to six o'clock as much as you have." His voice became soft. It moved through me.

"That was you on the phone?" I suddenly remembered what the operator said before he hung up. `I'll see you later, Paul.'

"You have a very... vivid way with words."

My mind started spinning a whole new way. "I was describing you?"

His grin opened into a wide smile. His hand moved behind my head and he pulled me to him again, his kiss embracing me wholly. I could feel the strength of him against me. His hard muscles bulged beneath his cotton shirt. He whispered, "Yes, Paul. I am the man you want. I am the man here with you, the man from your dreams." He kissed him again, harder. "And I want to be with you."

"I don't understand." Why did he want to be with me? His words had the ring of truth to them. He wasn't acting a role, I felt the difference. He really was the man of my fantasies. He really was here kissing me, pressing his powerful muscles against me, pressing his moist, soft, warm mouth to mine.

"You don't have to," he answered. "You don't have to do anything." He kissed him again. For a long time. "That's why I'm here." Another kiss, his lips softly brushing mine. "Tell me what you want."

Only one word came to my mind.

"You." •

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