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Object of Love
by Albino Finch

A two-week outing in a small cabin with five male friends had left Nerzer unbelievably horny. The lack of solitude had prevented him from doing any cleaning house whatsoever, sexually, and he could feel the build-up. It had become a slow, dull ache in his spine and just under his testicles, as if his pipes had backed up, flooding his system with hormones who were now on a rampage, demanding to be let loose. His first night home he put on some light music and settled, naked, into bed and got ready for some heavy-duty masturbating.

He had already decided to turn this less then pleasant experience into something he could learn from, using his trapped energies to explore his deepest yearnings, this desires hardwired into his soul. Tonight, he told himself, there would be no ready-made babes from skin magazines, no peep-show scenes of lust. He would find himself in his hand and his prick, and would let the fantasies spring from their interaction, out of the wells of his being.

Oh yes, he was going to enjoy himself tonight.

Despite the immense proportion of his eagerness, when he slipped under the sheets his dick was flaccid, yet ripe. Fine with him. He would start from the beginning, appropriate for a man about to discover himself.

He lay back, closed his eyes, and waited for his mind to drift to boner-ville.

It was a short journey, thoughts of works and the pressures of life dominating for a short while, until they slipped, as they do, to the matter of sex.

He would meet her in a club. She was attractive, but not unrealistically so, dancing that fine line between gorgeous and plain. He admired the courage, and there was something about her that made him want to bear his soul to her immediately. He did so, and she took it in stride, of course, offering a witty conjecture here and there. They hit it off right away. It became apparent, quicker then life, that this was love.

She took him home. They drank drinks. They kissed. They took off each other's clothes. Slowly. They were naked.

There it was. There was his boner. He lubed up and began stroking himself, slowly, feeling his energies building already, and determined to manipulate them.

Oh yes, there was nothing between them now, no clothes, no illusions of sociability. Just him, her and this basketball.


His rhythm broke off. Basketball? What the hell was that doing there? He had thought of strange things while shanking (hadn't we all?) but nothing like this. What strange, mysterious mechanisms of his subconscious had brought that into the picture? It wasn't even an animate object. Curious, he tried to remember some childhood incident which brought this anomaly on. He could remember nothing. He shrugged, and got back to the business at hand.

His dick had shriveled as if the room temperature had dropped 20 degrees. Christ.

He bought himself back to her, them, naked. He got down on his knees, probed her with his tongue, licked her breasts, kissed her.

Nothing. His penis didn't respond.

He thought of their slow fucking, of making her breakfast in the morning, the beginning of a prosperous and pleasurable relationship. Still, nothing.

Frustrated, he gave up on the self-discovery program and began to get down and dirty. He thought of lesbians. This usually worked like a charm, but no. He had two woman at once, three, eight. Still, no response downstairs. He thought of porno stars, moaning loudly at his ministrations, he thought of them giving him head. If that didn't work, nothing would. Nothing.

Eventually, the peep show in his head gave way to sleep.

He went to work the next day in a bad mood. He stared at his co-workers breasts and still felt no desire, as if he were looking at harmless old melons. He thought of fucking whoever he was talking to, whether he was attracted to them or not, but it was all just biology and body-mechanics.

That night, he thought of harems, another old favorite. Cheerleaders. At a basketball game. His dick suddenly grew heavy. He looked down at it with amazement.

"What the fuck is with you?"

Damnit, he was not going to masturbate to the thought of basketballs. No way.

His penis hid itself away in flaccidity once again.

More frustrated then ever, now, he went downstairs and flicked on the TV. Maybe there'd be a movie with some breasts. Or those 976 commercials. Or those dateline infomercials with women in bikinis. Or he could watch scrambled porn.

Flipping through the channels, he stumbled across a basketball game, and was suddenly hypnotized. The channel-changer dropped from a limb hand. The orange globe seemed to become huge, so focused was his attention. He could see, through the pixels on the screen, every dimple, every nuance of the black lines, which formed the three-dimensional holographic model of his lust. For five minutes time didn't pass. Then one of the players slammed the ball through the hoop, and Nerzer creamed his underwear.

Far from satisfying, this event left him wanting more, his yearning stronger then ever, undeniable. His breathing heavy, his eyes glazed, he walked-half-floated to his closet and rooted around frantically for an old basketball he knew had put away there. He found it, his eyes widened, his breath panting, every part of his body, his cock most of all, throbbing.

He picked it up, gently, as one picks up the holy grail. Each dimple became a small star, a pin-prick of pure pleasure. He took it to his kitchen, where it would bounce nicely on the linoleum. He held it a few inches from the floor. Let it drop. With each bounce, he gasped. He could stand it no longer, he took his underwear off and began to seduce the basketball with loving strokes and licks. The basketball couldn't respond, of course, but he felt it, he knew down to his very soul that this was right, that the time had come, that all was ready. He rubbed his engorged cock over the surface of the ball, every dimple putting him in a new universe of sensuality. Oh yes, it was nice, but there was something missing. He needed to bring this thing home. The Hole!

Yes, the Hole, the life source of the basketball, where air flowed in and out, where the life and death of the thing ebbed and flowed. He frantically turned the basketball in his hands until he found the sacred spot. He could swear it was moist. He stuck it home, and started to thrust. Wonderful! Wonderful! He surpassed every height of pleasure he had ever achieve, that any human being, he was sure, on this planet had ever experience. He had discovered a secret, the elixir of life, the philosopher's stone! And it was so simple! Anyone could buy one! He dissolved into the feeling, thinking of bringing his pleasure to the world. It was in the Basketball! In the Basketball! Everything he was flowed out of him and into this new dimension of sexuality he had discovered!

The feeling was building, he felt the dam behind his balls crumbling, and it burst, gushing forth, destroying him and everything, reducing him to the pure life force, in unity with the wonderful, accepting object.

And as he came, he realized, in a flash of insight, that he was a hand-operated air pump. And it's true. He was. A yellow one. I've got one just like him in my basement.

Backup Stop Onwards

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