Rafe ’n’ Me - Preview

I have no idea why nature decided to treat me as it did. Mind you, I have to admit I’m happy about it now, but back then …

I was sixteen when it all started. Well … I suppose it really started the day I was conceived, but you know what I mean. It was on my sixteenth birthday when the horror of my situation finally hit me and I realised I was doomed to life with a dick that was one and a quarter inches long - and I mean erect - when it was soft, it was darn nigh invisible. I’d waited for it to grow like the Doc said it would. Like the specialists said it would. Like Dad said it would. Like my brothers said it would … after they’d stopped laughing. Mum hadn’t said anything at all, because I hadn’t had the guts to show her, but I knew she knew. Isn’t it awful; that pitying look you see on someone’s face when they’re being awfully polite and won’t say anything … but you know they know.

I’d read books; pored over magazines; gobbled up heaps of trash from the internet and eventually come to the mortifying conclusion that there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it; I was a penile midget and that’s how I was going to stay for the rest of my miserable life.

Oh, my balls were fine; nice and big and dangly, but even as a kid I’d wished for a big dick to match and of course, I never got one. Damn Father Christmas … and all his bloody elves. Having big balls made the whole thing even more visually ridiculous. I’d seen a picture of an orchidometer on the internet and I was at the top end of the scale. And the whole lot worked fine, too; no problem there; I could produce a great Roman Candle effect when sufficiently aroused and there was no beating the feeling I got just before I came - like someone’d stuck a stun-gun between my thighs and fired at will - it’s just that I knew I was going to get laughed at or just gaped at as my prospective sex-partner frantically searched his pockets for a microscope.

Ah … that sort of gave it away, didn’t it. Yes; I’m gay as well. Don’t get me wrong; it hadn’t worried me at all - I’d told everyone when I was fourteen, though mind you I’d chosen my moment very carefully. I’d had to wait nearly two months before we had tomato soup, but it was well worth it. I suppose it was rather like the petty revenge of the underendowed, because we’d had to send the rug out to be cleaned and the cat always seemed to hiss at anything red afterwards, but there you are … into every life, a little tomato soup must fall.

I’ve mentioned my brothers, so I’d better tell you about them. Jake’s the elder of the two and a real lady’s man. Unlike me, he’s quite tall; well over six feet and rakishly good looking, which I’m not. He’s greatly taken with Elvis Presley and tends to try and look like him a bit … you know … too much hair with too much hair cream on it and shirt collars designed to poke your eyes out. He goes dancing down at the local Palais at least three times a week, in the hopes of pulling a girl. What amazes me is, he often seems to; God knows how many he’s laid already and he’s only twenty.

Franklin (never Frank!) is eighteen and the complete opposite. He only comes out of his room to eat and go to the bathroom and I think if he thought of a way of doing it, he’d seriously contemplate giving up eating so he wouldn’t even have to come out to go to the bathroom. Not that he isn’t fun; when we do manage to entice him out for some special event, he’s quite the life and soul of the party - what he finds so fascinating about his bedroom, I haven’t the faintest, because I’ve never actually been in there. For all I know neither has anyone else, as he keeps it locked even when he’s inside. Actually, I tell a lie; because I remember one day the cat snuck in behind him; it left pretty quicksmartish though, with a squawk you could probably have heard in the garden and from all reports it spent the rest of the day in its basket, gingerly licking its arse.

Thursday 8/12

Anyhow, there I was up in my bedroom on the evening of my sixteenth birthday, standing slightly punch-pissed and completely naked in front of my wardrobe mirror, crying my bloody eyes out. I was looking at this decent body - well … I think so anyway - perhaps a little on the short side but nicely muscular, with a reasonable face, huge dangly balls and a dick that Tom Thumb would’ve sneered at … after he’d stopped chuckling and put his magnifying glass away.

I remember I’d climbed into bed and cried a lot. I suppose being half cut didn’t help much because visions of tall, loomy cliffs flitted invitingly through my mind; or a theatrical fall under a train perhaps. Maybe a noose, hanging from the old cherry-tree beside the ancient cesspit up in the orchard - they’d find me dangling there, swaying gently to and fro in a slightly malodorous breeze, a grimly satisfied smile frozen on my face as I finally succeed in ridding myself of my tiny little problem.

No kidding; I’ve really thought about it … and more than once, too. I expect other guys have killed themselves over smaller things …

Oh, ha ha ha.

Yes; very funny.

You think about it, smartypants - how’d you like to be sixteen and realise you’re never going to be able to fuck anyone because you’re built like Barbie’s Ken? And no-one’s ever going to want you anyway - who’d want to have sex with a guy built like that? Not that I’d ever be able to get up the courage to actually show it to anyone who hasn’t already viewed its magnificence - I’ve had enough pained looks and suppressed giggles to last me a lifetime, thank you very much. I guess you can imagine the hell I would have gone through at school if I hadn’t steadfastly refused to have showers after sports - I’d made Dad write a note letting me off on the grounds of some vile foot infection.

So I lay there and cried. Sobs of despair and wails of frustration, half-smothered by my pillow in case some member of my family should hear - not that they weren’t used to it. The last thing I remembered was pleading to a nameless deity … please … please help me. Do something … anything. I didn’t care what it was; just make the pain go away …

I must have gone to sleep I suppose, as I woke up with a start. I knew immediately something wasn’t right, because there was a strange smell, sweet and sickly, like burnt banana but with an acidic edge to it that made my teeth hurt. The feeling things weren’t quite as they should be was confirmed when I almost wet myself. I hadn’t done that since I was eight, but it wasn’t exactly my fault …

‘You really should be careful what you’re wishing for …’

The voice was a hiss with a shudder behind it, like it was being produced by a smoke machine chugging away through a strobe. I guess my first instinct might have been to think it was Jake or Franklin having a go at me, but it never entered my mind for a second - no human larynx could have produced a sound like that.

So naturally I almost let go … let’s face it; with my dick, it didn’t have far to travel to get out.

‘I’m so sorry,’ came a staccato whisper. ‘Did I frighten you?’

If I hadn’t been petrified with fear, I’d have snorted with laughter. What a bloody silly question!

Ah, of course! … I was dreaming. That made it a lot easier … I’ve always had nightmares ever since I was small and though I don’t have them nearly as often these days, they still sometimes terrify me. I remember there was one I used to have about the pseudo-antique wardrobe near the end of my bed. I’d lie there, trying desperately to stay awake, but I couldn’t. My eyelids would get heavier and heavier and as they did, the wardrobe door would creak open and a light would shine out. As I fought to keep my eyelids apart, the door would swing wider and wider, the light shining gloomily upon a wizened little old woman sitting on a stool, slowly winding wool on a spinning wheel. As my eyes squeezed themselves shut, she’d carefully put down her spindle and climb out of the wardrobe and up onto the end of the bed, advancing remorselessly upon me with her arms outstretched, her split and discoloured nails reaching for my throat … and then suddenly I’d be wide awake, she’d fly back into the wardrobe and the door would slam shut … and then my eyelids would start to get heavy again …

I don’t know why, but I used to have that one quite often. It would go round and round, four or five times a session and sometimes I had it two or three times a night. I know it mightn’t sound much, but it used to scare me shitless and I always woke up screaming. Anyhow; I guess it was desperation that drove me to it, but one night when I had the dream, I somehow managed to realise I was dreaming. Once I did that, I started trying to alter my dreams; make them go in different directions or something. I didn’t get very far with it, but for a while I actually did achieve some measure of control. It never got to the level of being able to enjoy what I was doing, because for some reason as soon as I started affecting my own dream, I usually woke up … as if the dream had realised the jig was up and just quit in disgust.

So when this voice came and I’d managed just in time to avoid peeing myself, I tried getting into the dream and playing along.

‘No, not at all …’ I tried to sound light and bantering. ‘I’m used to hearing strange voices in my bedroom.’

‘It is probably worrying about your small penis that causes the dreams, do you think?’

I admit I was stunned for a moment, then I started getting scared again. This wasn’t at all the way the dream should be going.

‘I am dreaming, aren’t I.’ It was supposed to be a rhetorical question, but suddenly the voice was louder and I could feel a warm breath on my ear.

‘Why do you not pinch yourself?’ it whispered. ‘I believe that is the usual test.’

I froze up top and went flabby down below as a warm trickle wended its way down my thigh and into my groin. I didn’t dare try pinching myself because I had the awful feeling that if I did, I’d feel it good and proper.

‘Oh … I did frighten you. Here …’

I screamed shrilly as a soft, fluffy something brushed my hand and then realised my visitor had handed me a wad of tissues from the large box on my bedside table. After I’d recovered, the act of clenching my thighs together to stop the trickle running down into my bum while simultaneously raising the bedclothes with one hand and dabbing my crotch dry with the other, sort of took my attention away from … whatever it was.

‘I am a demon …’

I paused in mid-dab.

‘Pardon?’

‘How very polite. I am a demon. Have you finished with those?’

I felt something very strong take the damp mess from my hand. There was a brief flash followed quickly by a pungent odour and I realised I now knew what my own incinerated urine smelt like.

‘My name is Rafe … at least, that’s the only one I am able to give you for the present.’

I still couldn’t see much. The flash made the darkness deeper if anything, negative copies of it still swimming around on my retinas. I had the vague impression of something humungous just beside the bed, but I was still trying to control my bladder and my teeth, while simultaneously resisting the impulse to pull the blankets up over my head so the bogeyman couldn’t get me.

Then the thought suddenly occurred to me that if whatever it was wanted to eat me, it would hardly have bothered to help me clean up … unless of course it was a fastidious eater and preferred its dinner without wee-wee sauce. The silly ending to what had started out as a semi-intelligent thought actually made me giggle.

‘Ah. Are you feeling better now?’

‘A little, yes … thank you.’ Despite the fact my teeth still tended to chatter a bit, I thought I’d better be polite as this Rafe thing seemed to appreciate it.

‘Capital. May I ask your name?’

‘You mean you don’t know already?’

‘Now why should I?’ I sensed genuine surprise. ‘I am not psychic!’

‘Can’t you read my thoughts or something?’

‘Yes, of course; but it is not polite to do so unless one has been given permission.’

‘Oh. It’s Melville.’

‘What is? Oh … your name. Melville … hmmm … it is not what I would have named you.’

‘I get called Mel most of the time … unless I’m about to be punished or something.’

‘It still does not fit though, does it. Is that all you have? I understand humans occasionally command more than one appellation.’

‘My middle name’s David, but nobody calls me that.’ I was fascinated by the way this thing talked.

‘Oh; well I shall, if you do not mind. I was once acquainted with another entity named Melville; it was not in the least convivial.’

‘Another demon?’ I tried to sound jocular but the heart rate was still way up there.

‘Eh? Oh, no … it was a raven. Rather vicious, too.’

‘A raven?’ This conversation was getting silly.

‘Yes. A watchraven, actually. Put a foot in the wrong place and the confounded thing would attempt to remove your eyes.’

‘Ouch!’

‘Exactly …’

There was an awkward pause during which I took the opportunity to relax my fingers and toes, while cautiously feeling beneath my thighs to make sure I hadn’t dribbled everywhere.

‘Please! Do not do that …’

My other hand had crept furtively towards the switch of the lamp beside the bed and the genuine note of alarm stopped my finger in mid flick.

‘… I do not think you are quite ready to see me yet.’

‘You mean … you’re going to let me?’

‘Well, naturally … but you will need a little … how shall I put it … preparation?’

‘Are you truly revolting, then?’

‘Oh! No, I do not think so.’ The demon sounded quite taken aback. ‘It is not that I am ugly exactly … I am just … awesome.’

‘And I’m likely to die of fright or something?’

‘Very possibly … but I was a little more concerned about you losing control of your bladder again.’

‘Oh.’ That set me back on my heels a bit … or it would have if I hadn’t been lying down.

‘Perhaps I should describe myself to you first. Might that help, do you think?’

‘Probably. Can you see me?’

‘Perfectly. We demons have excellent night-vis …’ My visitor broke off with an exasperated sigh. ‘Now what are you doing?’

‘Sorry … I just wanted some water … in that bottle?’

‘I see. No, please … do continue.’

I took a swig to wet my somewhat dry throat and replaced the bottle as Rafe started describing himself.

‘I am rather taller than yourself … about seven of your feet, I believe and also somewhat wider. I am covered in scales, black all over and have a rather long tail which can be a liability at times … particularly in lifts.’

‘Is it forked?’

‘My tail? No; it is long and whip-like, with a sort of arrowhead-shape at the end.’

‘In the classic demon style, then.’

‘Do not be facetious, but yes, I suppose you are right.’

‘Horns too?’

‘Of course; but they are only small at present as I am relatively young.’

‘A young demon? So how old are you?’

‘One thousand, four hundred and twenty six.’

‘Ye gods! That’s young?’

‘We live to be approximately ten thousand years old, so by comparison with your good self, I am about … twelve.’

‘Twelve? I let myself get scared crapless by a mere kid?’

‘Do not be pert. I have still been around a lot longer than you have.’

‘Granted … but twelve? Sheesh!’

‘It depends. If you are only planning to live to be eighty or so, then it is more like eleven.’

‘Oh, thanks a lot. That makes me feel much better.’

‘Excellent; that is admirable!’

‘I was being sarcastic.’

‘I see … then please do not. It is rather unpleasant and if you do it again, I will not grant your wish.’

‘My wish?’

‘For Jeffreys’ sake … you desire a bigger penis, remember?’

I gulped. Rafe was going to give me a bigger dick? Suddenly I didn’t care if he was only three; he had my full and undivided attention.

~

Rafe ‘n’ Me - available in book or download format - What had invaded our young hero’s bedroom? Would it eat him? Would it remove his dick altogether? Buy Rafe ‘n’ Me and find out how an underendowed boy saves the world from something nasty!

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