Working for a catering company didn't pay well and, according to Derrick's parents, did nothing for his long term career; but it did give him plenty of free time. Even on weeks when he worked a couple nights plus weekends, he still had his days to do whatever he wanted.
The Monday morning after the gala at the museum Derrick woke up late. Mid-morning sun filled his apartment and cool morning air leaked through the old windows. He yawned and flipped his legs off his mattress and onto the wood floor. At some point, a long time ago, the wood was smooth and polished; now, after years of having chairs and couches and boxes pushed and scraped across it, the floor was rough. He gently brushed his toes back and forth across the wood and stared down at his white briefs -- his semi hard dick bulged against the fabric. Waking up with morning wood wasn't unusual for Derrick, but this time there was a reason: he'd woken from a dream about Michael.
In his dream, Michael had met him on the museum balcony and taken his hand. They'd run through the empty gallery halls, past the portraits of old aristocrats and landscapes of sheep and fields; they'd run until the museum halls melted into a path that wound through a thick forest.
Come on, Michael had said. Derrick had followed him through the dream until the path wound to the bank of a stream. Michael had pulled off his shirt to reveal a broad chest covered in neatly trimmed, dark hair. He then pulled off his pants; the same dark hair made a trail down his muscular stomach and gathered around his groin. He put his hands on his hips and laughed, a deep, hearty laugh,
Hurry up, the stream won't be here forever, he'd said. Derrick pulled his clothes off just as quickly. Michael took his hand and led him into the stream. He pulled Derrick close to him so that their chests were pressed together; Michael's dick hardening against Derrick's. Then, Michael had bent down, but just before they kissed, Derrick had woken up.
Remembering his dream had made Derrick fully hard. He leaned back on his bed and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and slid them down his legs. His dick popped up. He stretched out his legs and used one hand to gently rub the head of his dick; with his other hand he began rubbing his nipples. He closed his eyes and tried to recreate the dream in his mind: Michael pulling him close; Michael's firm chest and strong arms hugging their bodies tightly together. Precum leaked from his dick.
Derrick took the hand that he'd been using to rub his nipples and scooped the precum of the head of his dick with his middle finger. He slumped down on his bed and spread his legs apart so that he could reach under his thigh gently rub his asshole with his finger. His hole tensed up as he pressed his finger just a bit inside. He took a sharp breath in and began slowly pulling on the shaft of his dick. He pressed his middle finger up to the first knuckle into his hole and took a deep breath.
He imagined Michael from the dream, but this time, he went further than the dream. He pictured Michael kissing him; gently lowering him to the ground, and lifting his leg onto his shoulder. He pictured Michael's dick -- he imagined it long and thick -- beginning to press against his anus.
Derrick jerked his dick more quickly. He pulled his finger out of his hole and scooped more precum from the tip of his cock; then he pushed it back inside himself to the first knuckle, then the second, then as far as he could insert it. His dick was throbbing now; he squeezed his hole tight around his finger as he imagined Michael forcing his dick inside him; fucking him slowly at first, then faster, with more power. Derrick pulled his finger out then inserted it again. He picked up a rhythm between his two hands: one pulling the shaft of his dick up and down and the other keeping time as he fingered his hole.
Derrick's dick throbbed purple. His breathing quickened. He imagined Michael kissing him and fucking him as he continued to jerk his own dick and fuck his own hole with his finger.
"Oh god," he gasped. He rolled his head back and breathed in sharply. His hole tightened; his throbbing dick shot a thick stream of cum, then another, then another, that pooled on his belly. He eased his finger out of his hole and slumped back on his bed. He took several deep breaths then opened his eyes. The midmorning light had moved slightly further across his apartment. He looked down at his toned stomach and touched the pool of cum.
He stood up and grabbed a dirty towel from his hamper to stop the cum from dripping off his stomach. The trousers he'd worn the night before were draped over the side of the basket. He grabbed them and pulled out the business card Michael had given him.
Michael Harwood, Campaign Consultant
Other than a phone number in smaller font below the name, the card didn't have anything else on it. Derrick turned it over; a fleurs-de-lis embossed in shiny ink glinted in the sun. Derrick turned the card over in his hand a few times and watched the light catch on the back. He put the card down on his window sill.
In the other pocket of his trousers was the wad of $100 bills Senator Cartwright had stuffed in his underwear. Derrick unrolled them and counted them out: five individual bills, more money than he'd made the past three gigs combined. He put the money on the window sill next to Michael's business card.
Derrick had heard Senator Cartwright's name mentioned before, although he hadn't recognized him in person. He was the louder of Tennessee's two senators and the year prior he'd gotten lots of national airtime talking about some bill he'd said would detonate citizens' second amendment rights -- the bill hadn't passed. Derrick wasn't sure when Cartwright's term was up, but he'd heard newscasters make comments about bigger things for the man, maybe governor. Whatever his ambitions were, a story about how he'd lured a recent college grad into a basement to try and fuck him wouldn't sit well with the voters of Tennessee.
