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Toby’s parents had no idea where their son got that strange white feather.  He loved playing with it, waving it around like a wand and ticking the dog.  It never seemed to get dirty despite Toby taking it to every sandbox, playground and backyard.  When his parents tried to take away it away, the tot would wail emphatically, tears streaming, face turning a frightful red until they gave it back to him.

Sarah knew where it came from, but she said nothing, almost blushing at the sight of it.

It should have been something that he grew out of, another toy to be tossed aside like so many forgotten Christmas or birthday presents.  But that feather was like an old friend, always at Toby’s side year after year.  It was tucked into his book-bag, pinned to his baseball cap like Robin Hood, or just tied by a string to his bedpost.

Something about how that feather felt in his hand comforted Toby.  Some nights, while struggling over his tenth-grade calculus books, he would brush the feather against his neck, so light and soft against his skin.  He could almost imagine fingers in the place of that feather, hot breath and a smoky voice whispering in his ear to come home.  It made the blood rush to Toby’s cheeks and a few other places that a young man dare not mention in public, never mind his parents.

The impulses got stronger as he grew a little older, and Toby soon found new ways to play with the feather.  Alone and locked in his room, Toby lay in his bed, brushing the white plume around his bare chest, letting the feather play around his stomach and thighs lazily.  He accidentally tickled himself and hoped that his parents did not hear him laugh for no reason. 

And yet, Toby could hear another’s dark chuckle mixed in his own laughter. 

Toby closed his eyes, lying very still except for his arm, and envisioned that face—the face that haunted his dreams as a child.  Toby should not remember but he does—those piercing eyes that looked back at him from the mirror, that crooked smile that sang him lullabies and whispered promises of joys beyond his wildest imagination.  That face that he drew in the corners of his notebooks, the face that always seem to be watching him, protecting him, waiting for him…

And then there was the body, slender and cat-like, long arms that once held him and the legs that he once perched upon.  It only occurred to Toby in later years what might lay between those legs, ample and potent, the product of adolescent fantasy or the promise of dark pleasures waiting to be discovered, if only Toby dare to dream…

What would the King of Goblins think of Toby, hot and desperate, lying in bed and imagining Jareth stripped of all his roguish regalia, with his hands on Toby’s skin and his tongue in Toby’s mouth?  Would he be insulted to see Toby pull down his pants and take that feather and just lightly touch it right…there?

Toby could almost hear the rustle of wings as the plume tickled the tip, so light and so soft against his aching, throbbing flesh.  He circled the feather around it, like a painter with his brush.  Toby breathed hard, brushing the feather up and down, imagining fingers, imagining a tongue…

“I wish the Goblin King to come to me,” Toby whispered out loud, not imagining anything to come of a desperate wish by a horny teenager.

But then, there he was, on top of him, nose against his, wild mismatched eyes staring into his own.

“At your command, love,” Jareth’s voice was dark with desire.

Toby gave no resistance as Jareth’s mouth took his own, hot and wet and hungry.  The wait had been so painfully long.  Toby grabbed into Jareth’s hair, pulling his head closer, almost crushing his face into his.  Suffocation was not a concern at that moment; Toby breathed into him, sucking on his tongue.

Jareth broke the kiss with a loud pop, “Did you miss me?”  He asked with a vulpine smile. 

“Yes, my king,” Toby answered breathlessly.

He then took the feather from Toby’s fingers, tickling the young man’s cheek with it, “I see you’ve kept my gift.  I’m glad, my boy.  This is a token of our eternal bond,” he brushed it against Toby’s lips and the young man sighed.  “You are mine, my love.”

Toby wrapped his arms around him, holding him close to his body, feeling himself throb between their stomachs.  His skin felt amazing under his fingers, sweeping down his back to grab hold of the ass that haunted his teenage fantasies…

“So eager,” Jareth chuckled at the squeeze, thrusting his hips down against Toby’s stomach.  His ass clenched under Toby’s fingers, his pelvis bucking gently against him.  “I have been waiting for this moment, when you would call for me of your own free will.”  Jareth ran his hands down Toby’s sides, just sitting up a little.  “Yet even I never imagined it would be like this.  But I’ll take you any way I can.”

Toby looked at the beautiful creature above him.  He was long and strong and just about perfect.  His sister was an idiot, Toby thought to himself, as his eyes trailed down Jareth’s stomach to…

It was exactly as Toby imagined that Jareth’s cock looked like, and his heart jumped into his throat.

Jareth caught where Toby’s gaze was wondering, and gave him a “you naughty boy” look.  But then, he took Toby’s hand from his buttock, gliding it around his hip, and wrapped his fingers around it. 

Toby groaned at the feel of it in his hand: warm, hard, throbbing, long and thick.

“Let me teach you, my love.  Gently, now,” he moved Toby’s fingers around him, guiding him to where he most desired.  His hand was strong, and his cock pulsed in Toby’s fingers.  

Toby watched Jareth’s coal-black eyelids flutter closed under his touch.  He felt happy that he could make Jareth purr like a cat, could make him suck his bottom lip in pleasure.  He wanted to be a good student.  He wanted to please his king.

“Good boy,” Jareth cooed long and fond as he took Toby into his own hand, and Toby gasped out loud.  Jareth’s fingers were…there were no words to adequately describe how they felt around Toby’s cock at that moment.  Toby could probably never touch himself again because it would never top what Jareth was doing to him.  Magic…Jareth’s hands had magic.  That’s why he wore gloves, Toby reasoned, because their bare touch could make the heart fly out of its cage.  Toby was almost delirious with heat.  He felt like exploding, but something inside his head told him that coming too soon would not please the Goblin King.

The Goblin King lay back down on top of Toby to kiss him again.  He pulled Toby onto their sides so he could release some of his weight, allowing their hands to work freely between their stomachs.  Jareth held Toby close, his arm around his chest as they continued to feverishly fondle each other.

Toby gasped and moaned, mumbling Jareth’s name against his lips and a few other unmentionable words.  He was everything he ever dreamed, everything he ever wanted, and he could not hold himself back any further.  Toby came hard, pouring over his hand and spilling against Jareth’s stomach as he bit on the Goblin King’s lip.

The King, too, had reached his tipping point and climaxed into Toby’s hand, hot and wet and sloppy, growling like a wildcat.

But then Toby opened his eyes and it was morning, and he was alone, and he was sticky and naked.  Toby sat up in horror, desperately looking around for a man who was no longer there…if he was there in the first place.  Toby’s throat tightened at the thought of it all just being a dream, that he had merely fallen asleep playing with himself…

But the feather was neatly hung on his bedpost, shiny and soft as always.  The hardened tip of the quill had been blackened, and something had been written on Toby’s ceiling in place of one of his hand-drawn posters: “Another night, love.”

And that was a promise and a secret worth keeping.