52E

by BRK   

Richie is finally going to get to see his boyfriend in Wales after six months apart. He’s not looking forward to folding his 6-foot-6 frame into a middle seat in the back of coach for the long Transatlantic haul, but Gareth might have discovered something that will make his flight a little easier.

Richie smiled at the sight of his goofy, elfin-faced boyfriend currently filling his phone screen. “I can’t believe I’m finally going to get to see you again in person!” he said, moderating his voice to avoid annoying too many of his fellow passengers in the waiting area. He still got a brief but scalding look from a pallid, sulky redheaded twenty-something slumped in one of the seats opposite him, before the guy very pointedly returned his gaze to his copy of Brisingr. He hadn’t exactly said I’m trying to read here, but he might as well have. Richie ignored him.

Gareth’s melodious, lightly-accented tenor came through his earbuds. “I know, it’s been ages,” he said, scratching the close-trimmed sandy beard he’d cultivated while he was away. Well, not ages, Richie thought, but six months was close enough, especially after a pretty intense senior year at Northwestern where they were practically in each other’s pockets twenty-four-seven. Then those first few weeks in Wales Gareth had been so busy setting his parents’ affairs in order and taking on the organization of their castle—their castle, for Pete’s sake—that he’d barely even had time to video chat. And when they had talked, Gareth had kept gabbling cryptically about “discovering things” about his family he’d never known, before he’d just as strangely clammed up about anything family- or castle-related.

Richie hoped Gareth would open up about his mysterious heritage soon, but there was time for that. At least now both their schedules had aligned enough for their enforced separation to finally be put behind them for four weeks. Maybe more, if his work visa went through. Gareth didn’t know about that, though—it was going to be a surprise, if it happened.

Richie gave his lover a crooked smile. “Just a quick flight across the Atlantic to get through, and I’m all yours.” Over the PA, the gate representative announced that group 2 was boarding.

“Do you need to go?” Gareth asked.

Richie sighed. “No, it’ll be a while,” he said glumly.

Gareth’s familiar longing gaze turned concerned, his pale blue eyes seeming too bright over the video connection. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Remember I had to switch dates at the last minute because Aunt Mary insisted I walk at commencement, just because she’d already made plans to come? Well, I ended up with… a less than ideal placement. In the back of coach.” He winced as he added, “Middle seat.”

Richie heard a snicker from the row across from him, but when he looked up, glare at the ready, the sylphlike twenty-something was still buried in his book, though with his lips twisted in a cruel smirk. Yeah, buddy, you try being 6-foot-6 and folding yourself into coach sometime, he grumbled in his head. He sent the guy a few more eye daggers before returning his gaze to the phone.

“Oh, love,” Gareth was saying, understanding his extra-tall lover’s predicament immediately. “You couldn’t get better seats?”

“Booked solid,” Richie said. “No worries! It’s only a few hours to Cardiff.” Or ten.

Gareth looked sympathetic, but his commiseration abruptly turned into wide-eyed realization. “Oh! I may have…” He trailed off, his gaze becoming briefly unfocused, then he nodded decisively, those glinting pale-blue eyes fixing sharply on Richie. “Maybe this is the way to tell you,” he said, a hint of mischief in his voice. “Hold tight a second!”

The attendant announced group 3, and a few people near Richie got up and collected their belongings. Richie stayed put. “No rush,” he told Gareth dejectedly.

Gareth winked and disappeared from the screen. He returned a moment later dangling a large green tear-drop gemstone from a fine chain he held between his thumb and forefinger. It was cut in facets a little like a chandelier pendant, but somehow Richie thought it didn’t seem… ornamental. “Take a look at this!” Gareth enthused.

Richie frowned. The pendant, even more than Gareth’s eyes, seemed too bright somehow, seeming to seep directly into Richie’s brain. He’d have to find the brightness settings for the video app. “What are you—” he began to ask, but Gareth was murmuring something in a language Richie didn’t understand, looking right at Richie with the stone held between his eyes. Must be Welsh, he thought, though it was hard to get a handle on any of the words; it was like what Gareth was saying was blurred somehow.

Richie blinked. Gareth was grinning excitedly at him, and the stone was gone, almost as though Richie had imagined it. “That should do it!” he said. Then he added, “I hope it works. I’m still learning this stuff!”

Richie chuckled. “Learning what?” he teased. “Gem appraisal? Muttering in Welsh?” As he basked in Gareth’s smile he fought a sudden and inappropriate rush of arousal for his super-cute boyfriend and his general adorableness. Not now!

“Close!” Gareth said, irrepressible as always.

Just then the PA voice announced that group 8 was boarding. What? Had he lost ten minutes, or had they decided to do the boarding in random order? He stood up quickly, grabbing the rucksack he was bringing as a carry-on. “Gotta go!” he said. “Love you!”

“Love you too!” Gareth replied cheerily. “And don’t worry—I just know your flight will go so much better than expected!”

Rickie made his way down the clogged aisle to the back of the plane with mounting anxiety. When he spotted his row, in the middle section toward the back, his heart dropped a little as he saw that his companion in the neighboring seat was the same undersized redhead, the one with the bad attitude and worse taste in literature. He was so distracted by this he half-stumbled over the hems of his jeans as he shifted forward. Weird. They seemed to be gathering inexplicably around his ankles and sneaker heels, almost as though the soft, heavy denim were breeding somehow.

The redhead, meanwhile, was glowering at Richie’s waist as he got closer, and Richie looked down to see his white tee shirt was riding up, so that an inch of tanned lower abdomen was exposed—and, along with it, the small Pikachu tattoo he’d gotten ages ago on his left hip. He gave the redhead a dark look, and the guy glanced away, annoyed. At least the person on the other side was a silver-haired lady with Beats on and eyes closed, either already asleep or completely immersed in whatever she was listening to. Richie amused himself pretending it was steamy gay erotica in audiobook form as he trudged afterward a few inches at a time.

Finally Richie got to his row, and the redhead got up with a huff of annoyance to let Richie in. As expected, the guy was slim next to Richie’s fit-but-not-buff, and considerably shorter—maybe shorter than Richie had guessed, with the way Richie’s chin could have rested on his head. He squeezed into the row, shoving his bag under the seat awkwardly, then dropped into the seat with trepidation—only to discover that his legs fit easily in the space between his seat and the one in front of him. “Huh,” he said, surprised into speaking aloud. “Better leg room than expected!”

He glanced at the redhead, whose look of disdain as he settled into the aisle seat clearly said Only because you’re a freak like a true master of eyeball-tauntery. He pulled his paperback out of the pocket in front of him, opened it up to a dog-eared page (ugh, so barbaric Richie thought), and made a show of giving all his attention to it.

That was fine with Richie. He tried adjusting his shirt, but it stubbornly stayed ridden-up, now exposing almost two inches of lower torso. He gave up, grabbed his phone out of his pocket, and after observing a last text notification from Gareth (“Enjoy the flight!” followed by three thumbs-up emojis) with a fond smile, switched it into airplane mode and tucked it away. He had his own reading material on the ebook app, but he’d wait until they were in-flight. He was still feeling that warm and tingly sense of residual arousal from the end of his talk with Gareth—his dick was half-chubbed and everything—so it was a good thing the books he’d downloaded weren’t the hardcore romances he’d amused himself attributing to his other seatmate.

He buckled his seatbelt, still marveling at how surprisingly spacious his legroom was. His knees weren’t even touching the seat in front of him.

The passengers were settled, the hatches battened, and the safety announcements accomplished with record efficiency, and soon the flight was launching into the sky and beginning its long arc over the cold Atlantic. With a peripheral glance at his seatmates, one aggressively annoying him and the other still lost in yaoiland, Richie retrieved his phone and happily pulled up the book he’d started rereading, Umberto Eco’s Name of the Rose. Soon he was completely engrossed in the doings of the stalwart rationalist William of Baskerville, the thrum of the engines a reassuring background noise as they tore through the skies.

About an hour passed and he was well into Adso’s amusingly awkward sex scene with the peasant girl when he realized he was feeling uncomfortably turned on himself—not his usual reaction to depictions of straight sex, even with the movie’s young Christian Slater overlaid onto the hapless novice in his imagination. He looked up from his phone. The cabin was dark and quiet, though there were pools of light here and there, including over the seat next to him where his seatmate was still ignoring him with extreme prejudice. He felt another spike of warm arousal, and suddenly he saw it: a heavy, two-inch-wide bulge down the left leg of his jeans that reached a most of the way to his knee. He knew exactly what that bulge was, too, because he could feel it, hot and thick, pressed against his long, hairy thigh. He flexed his cock and watched the bulge twitch and wriggle along its impossible length. And he was only half-hard still: he felt the growing potential for full arousal and the hardness that came with it building up inside him, relentless and inevitable.

He stared at it, baffled. Sure, he was hung—the old saw about lanky guys with large feet was very true, at least when it came to him and his cousins—but he wasn’t that hung. His balls felt big, too, like they were swelling to match, bubbling with the increased cum they would produce to live up to the cannon it would be shot from.

This was—no. He couldn’t deal with this.

He wanted to get up, to run, but he was blocked in. Trapped. Worse—his feet were… no longer touching the ground? Huh? Just as bizarrely, almost two-thirds of his gently-defined six-pack was now exposed below the hem of his high-riding tee shirt. What the hell? His legs were… shorter? And his torso was longer? Were his hips on some kind of slider so you could just move them up and down his body?

He felt irrational hysteria start to bubble up in the back of his mind, but he frantically pushed it down. Focus, he told himself. The urgent problem was his cock, which was extremely obvious and objectionably obscene. All the obnoxious redhead had to do was cast his eyes just an inch to the right of his book, and there would be consternation. Consternation and umbrage.

Mentally, he rooted through the contents of his rucksack, but it was mostly papers, his laptop, cords and chargers, the leather wrist cuff he’d bought Gareth as a present… He could maybe cover his junk with the laptop, but it wasn’t ideal, especially if—

His cock flexed and he felt another rush of gut-level arousal as the bulge shoved further down his pants leg, almost reaching his knee. He shivered, with fear and need. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to stroke it… make himself cum…

He reached up and jabbed the flight attendant call button. He would get them to bring him a blanket. That was still a thing, right? The blue light glowed in the dimly lit cabin, and at the soft bing the redhead frowned and pursed his lips, predictably cheesed at the interruption.

Shit, he was going to look over. He was going to look over any second. Just Richie staring at him out of the corner of his eye, radiating guilt, was going to make him look over…!

In one quick, jerky motion he hauled off his too-short tee shirt and spread it over his lap, then settled back against his seat, ignoring the scratchiness of the economy-class upholstery against his bare back as he affected a shaky nonchalance. Of course, the slim redhead was now staring right at him, his strawberry eyebrows drawn together to convey a full-throated What is your damage?! without a single word needing to be spoken.

A male flight attendant of the Jake Gyllenhaal variety appeared at the end of the row. Richie watched as the stubbly but otherwise well-groomed attendant took in Richie’s tanned, elongated torso, his thin, solidary thatch of dark chest hair between his defined pecs making him (as always when he was shirtless) look extra-naked; the white top he was not wearing draped conspicuously across his lap; and the steely I want to complain look the redhead was giving the Jake-alike. The redhead jerked his head sideways toward Richie, brows lifting in a Do you see this? prompt to action, and the attendant nodded. “Sir,” he said, addressing Richie in a quiet but firm voice, “could you please put your shirt back on?”

Richie thought of just saying no, of plowing his way out of the row and running screaming down the aisle, and… what? Throwing himself out of the plane? Instead, he said, “Can I get a blanket, then? My, uh, legs are cold.”

The Jake-alike blinked, then responded automatically, “Certainly, sir.” He disappeared toward the back of the aircraft.

Just then, however, he felt another surge of arousal flood through him, too powerful to ignore. His eyes widened—his dick was getting bigger, and it still wasn’t fully hard. When it was hard, he knew, no tee shirt was going to be enough to prevent a scene that would make him the most thoroughly arrested and widely youtubed man in air-travel history.

There was no time to lose. He briefly considered his right-hand seatmate, but for some reason disturbing her was unthinkable, whether it was the arms of Morpheus she was ensconced in or the prickly charms of Jason, the cold-hearted CEO who pined for Zeke, the firm-jawed art director. He turned urgently to the asshole seated on his other side—him, he could disturb. “I need to get out,” he said flatly, keeping his voice down to avoid disturbing the other passengers.

The redhead fixed him with a beady, brown-eyed glare, his dark-red eyebrows hanging over his eyes like upstairs balconies. He spoke for the first time. “Are you kidding me?” he growled in a low, Clint Eastwood rasp.

Richie stared back, anger born out of fear of imminent humiliation welling up in him. “Move!” he barked, still as quietly as he could.

The redhead unbuckled and stood up, radiating exasperation, and Richie, keeping his shirt on front of him, pushed past him and headed for the rear bathrooms, almost knocking over the Jake-alike attendant returning with his blanket. He locked himself in the cramped bathroom, dropped his jeans the shortened distance down his newly stubbier legs, and grabbed his ridiculously huge, increasingly arm-sized dick with both hands. In mere strokes he was cumming hard and long into the sink (or thereabouts), spattering the shallowly-sloping plastic so powerfully he half expected to scar the surface as he forced himself not to make any other noise.

When he was done, he kept his two-handed grip on his still-hard cock, feeling as through he had only primed the thing, and eyed himself in the mirror, feeling the immense pleasure of afterglow. He was still his normal extra-tall, so that his head was cut off as it always was with mirrors in public spaces, but his proportions were now more torso than legs, as if he’d been reconfigured to better suit the conditions in coach.

Reconfigured…

He realized his muscles had firmed up and gotten a bit of a pump, too. The real give-away, though, was the hair slowly blossoming across his slightly thicker pecs. Gareth liked buff guys, a little buffer than Richie was (or had been)… especially with a bit of a hairy chest.

He bent and gave himself a knowing look in the mirror as he started stroking himself toward his second orgasm. He and Gareth would have quite the conversation about Gareth’s mysterious heritage when he finally got to Wales.

As it turned out, Gareth came clean right away about his newly-discovered witchy ancestry and confessed to trying out a spell to make Richie’s flight better, not realizing the side-effects that might come from video transmission and a bleed-through of mutual lust. Richie, of course, forgave him, at least after a day of awkward experimentation got him his old legs-to-torso ratio back, more or less; both of them pretended there was nothing else that had changed about him or might be eligible for reversion.

After that Richie fondly promised to stay and help Gareth train himself in his craft, and in the end the playful warlock and his stoic mortal lover spent many lives of men discovering the secret joys of human magic.

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