Unexpectedly inheriting part of an island estate off the coast of Maine, Kent travels there to assess his options. On arriving in Glen Rush, he meets the young caretaker—a handsome stunner who’s acquired, with some justification, the nickname “Johnny Pecs”.
The “Swallow” turned out to be a light two-seater helicopter, so small that it seemed to be all glass-domed cockpit, with the gantry-like tail boom, thin rotor blades, and skids looking almost like they’d been added on as afterthought. Johnny strode confidently toward it, and as I caught up to him, my satchel with my computer and high-priority essentials bouncing against my hip I was about to ask if we should be flying a chopper in the rain—especially one as light as this. My quick glance up to check the gray sky must have clued him in. “Don’t worry about the storm,” he said, glancing up himself for a quick double-check of the overhead conditions. “It’s already done here. See?” Even as he said it, I noticed the rain had already let up substantially, and a bit of sun was peaking through the clouds near the western horizon.
We stowed my bags and boarded the helicopter. Johnny was clearly an expert with the thing. I remembered that light aircraft like this sometimes came in kits, and wondered if he’d built the Swallow himself, or helped someone else build it. We put on hour headsets and strapped in. “There’s a boat for larger cargo, or for when we can’t go up in the Swallow, of course,” Johnny explained over the mic as he went through his pre-flight. “I just thought you’d enjoy this,” he added, tossing me a totally shit-eating grin.
“Thanks,” I said distractedly, relieved he couldn’t feel the radiating pulse of my throbbing cock or the uptick in my pulse from that little throw-away grin. Then my eyes fell on his pecs and everything kind of stopped again. The main effect of walking through that shower to get to the Swallow was now right before me: that faded coral tank, which had already looked so snug and happy to cling to Johnny’s amazing body, was now …wet. It looked brick-red from the darkness of the water, and it seemed like it must have been painted on. I prized my eyes away from his chest, long enough to follow the curve of the thin hem as it wrapped around his lightly flaring lats, down from there along the curve of his narrow waist and hips, up the subtle ribbing as it dove and rode up and down the cut, hard muscles of his six-pack abdominals, until inevitably my gaze climbed up the sheer heights of the lower cliffs of his pecs, past the lone, cold spikes of nipples seemingly trying to push through the thin fabric, until my eyes finally rested where they wanted to belong, on the beautifully too-big pectorals that stood out from his chest from sternum to collarbone.
I realized I had been listening to nothing but my own breathing for a while, ignoring the loud clattering of the rotor and the roar of the wind, when Johnny’s voice quietly broke into my thoughts over my headset. “It’s okay if you like looking at them,” he said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
I realized I’d been staring, and despite his words I felt ashamed, so I looked up to meet his hazel eyes, glad we were now sitting and my raging erection was safely hidden under my forearm. The last part of what he’d said confused me, though. “What do you mean?”
He looked out over the water. The air was mostly clear now, though the light was fading. Up ahead a ways I thought I spotted two red specks of light on a larger dark blob, and figured that must be the island. “Just that lots of guys like looking at ‘em,” Johnny said casually. “Straight guys seem to like checking me out just as much as the gay guys.”
I mulled this perplexing statement over for a minute until it dawned on me that he was giving me an out, in case I was straight and was about to have a gay panic meltdown because I’d caught myself drooling over some guy’s chest. “I imagine us gay guys like it even more,” I said with a crooked grin.
Johnny grinned wide. “I reckon so,” he said. “Heck, some days I can’t even stop lookin’ at ‘em!”
I laughed. “I don’t blame you,” I said. “Seriously though, I’m sorry for staring. Maybe you do get it a lot, but it’s still rude, and I apologize.”
Johnny checked his instruments before holding my gaze a moment. “Kent, when someone comes along as hot as you are,” he said, “my rule is—Look all you want!” With that he took the helicopter into a fast, arching bank that put the looming mass of what had to be Glen Rush Island firmly before us. I could see the buildings of Old Great Grandad’s estate before me—it looked like fucking Hogwarts. I was having too much fun flying to think about the estate, anyway. Johnny was deliberately hot-dogging a little, just twisting enough this way and that to make it feel like the wind might catch this tiny aircraft and whip it away to some kind of North Atlantic Never-Never land. My stomach fell in that way that makes rollercoasters so much fun, and I felt a sudden desire to spend as much of the rest of my life as possible doing things with Johnny that made my blood rush.
“And how often is that?” I asked, raising my voice over the rushing wind and my own excitement.
He turned just long enough to smirk at me. “Once in a lifetime,” he said with a wink, before adjusting our flight a final time and touching down gently on the marked helipad atop the main compound building. It was such a corny line, but I was so giddy in that moment I was almost ready to believe him.
My plan, such as it was, had been to spend two weeks at the estate. Presumably I’d be evaluating the property and cataloging the contents as necessary (furnishings, art, and so on), possibly prefatory to a sale or escrow, but I’d deliberately left things open-ended because the probate lawyer, who was based in Bangor and had never so much as set foot on the island, had been practically useless when it came to figuring out what I’d be facing up here. He didn’t even have a rough square footage tally or a list of the buildings in the compound, and he even had someone named “Raoul” down as the caretaker, not Johnny.
“Raoul—that was my grandad,” Johnny explained as we trotted down rug-clad stone steps from the helipad where we’d landed in what felt like the Ivanhoe wing of the estate. “He and your great-grandad were pretty close. Actually, I’m pretty sure they were lovers, but they kept all that very much to themselves.”
Johnny turned us off the stairway into a wide, stone hall with ancient tapestries and modern lighting fixtures. I wondered what kind of money this place would make doing tours. Then I wondered what the fucking electric bill was, and when I would be stuck with it. I turned my brain forcibly back to what Johnny was talking about. “Wait—if my great grandad and your grandad were together, why didn’t you and your grandad inherit any of it?”
Johnny looked at me in surprise. “It has to be kept in the Copeland bloodline,” Johnny said, as if stating the obvious. “The estate won’t accept any other master.” He looked around and got his bearings—we’d arrived at a four-way meeting of broad, stone corridors. “This way,” he said, leading us off toward the left.
“But, I’m not a Copeland,” I objected, hurrying after him. “I’m an Avery.”
He looked at me sidelong. “You’re a Copeland,” he said confidently as we arrived at a pair of stately double doors. “You’re the Copeland, now. If you have Copeland blood, it drowns out everything else. This is the Yellow Room, by the way,” he added as he opened the doors and we steeped into a surprisingly open and pleasant looking suite, less the Castle Sturm-und-Drang I was expecting and more high-end European hotel. The color motif was a soft canary, with whites and a few lines of high-saturation blue brought out in contrast. Glass doors looked out onto a broad balcony and, beyond, deep blue-black skies and a mirroring ocean, each burnished red with the last embers of the day.
The bed looked big enough for four of me and was so inviting that I instantly felt exhausted after a day of traveling and transfers. I stumbled toward the thick, quilt-laden mattress like I’d walked here from Illinois, shedding my satchel and shirt onto the thick piled carpet almost without thought. I heard him saying something about his room, the Rose Room, being just down the hall, and the gymnasium wing where he’d built this body I so admired the level directly below, but I barely heard any of it.
From somewhere behind my I heard Johnny laugh as he opened and closed things. “The beds around here tend to do that to you,” he said lightheartedly. “You should be careful.”
I slumped face-first onto the bed, feet dangling off the edge, reveling in how comfortable it was. “That’s it,” I said into the bedspread, my voice muffled. It smelled very faintly of apricots, which I thought was nice. “I’m never leaving.”
Johnny snorted. He finished moving around—I discovered later he’d been putting my clothes and other items away in the various chests of drawers and wardrobes around the room—and a moment later I felt his hands on my feet as he started undoing my laces. “I’ll do it,” I mumbled muzzily into the duvet.
“Relax,” Johnny said. My shoes were already off and he was now pulling off my socks. “Roll over,” he said.
“Uh,” I said into the bed, “no thanks.” Even though I was now almost falling through this incredibly comfortable bed, my hard-on had somehow never abated. Indeed, now that Johnny’s hands had actually touched me it was pulsing stronger and harder than ever.
“C’mon, roll over,” Johnny said. He was prodding my hips, which, I have to say, was not helping. “I’ve seen ‘em before, you know,” he said patiently. “Guys get hard around me all the time.”
“The voice of modesty,” I teased, not budging.
Then he straddled me and grabbed my hips on both sides, and I nearly fucking creamed right then and there. “It’s a fact of life,” he said rationally, rocking my hips a bit one way, then a bit the other way, trying to encourage me to roll over. “A guy sees me, he bones up. Straight, gay, doesn’t matter.”
“Not like this,” I protested. But I gave in and let him roll me over.
Johnny was above me, his long hair falling down around his face as he took in the unmistakable bulge in my pants. My cock was so hard it hurt, and it had reached its maximum size—longer than average by a damn site, but so thick and fat that it looked like I had a twenty-ounce soda bottle stuffed down my pants.
“Wow,” Johnny said, reverently. He licked his lips, and I felt a rush of something like gratitude that I had given to Johnny the gift of overpowering, almost goofy awe that he had sparked in me. He was forward, straddling my legs as he admired my shivering, hot tool, and I caught the edge of his scent. It was earthy, like peat and trees, and maybe a bit of stone, like he’d gathered up the aura of this old monstrosity of an estate. I drew in a deep breath of his heady aroma and took the opportunity to indulge in the prospect of man-cleavage as his thick upper pecs pressed together under the still slightly damp tank top.
“You …like?” I said after a long, quiet moment of mutual appreciation.
Johnny lifted his head and met my gaze. His eyes were full of dark fire. “Let me help you off with these jeans,” he said in a husky voice.
I woke from my nap with the room dark but for the buttery-warm light of a single lamp by the enormous bed, the black sky beyond my balcony long since having broken out into uncounted stars. I was alone, and yet I knew that wasn’t quite true—Johnny was around, somewhere, puttering about in some large, open space a few levels below me. The kitchens, maybe. I didn’t ask myself how I knew that, not yet. I kind of felt like I knew, and didn’t want to know. I had a sinking feeling that if I asked Johnny about things like that, the answer would be some variation on, “You’re a Copeland. You’re the Copeland.”
What I was ready to ask myself was whether my prodigious cock was going to be ready to go down anytime soon. I’d fallen asleep boned, blissed out of my mind, and I’d woken up just as rock-hard as a newly minted fifteen-year-old. Crossly, I sat up in bed, leaning against the pillows and cushioned backboard, and stared firmly down at the recalcitrant organ, but it just glared defiantly up at me with its one leaky eye. I tried reminding the thing that it had had a perfectly good release, and by perfectly good I meant “monumentally epic”, not two hours before; but the memory of Johnny’s mouth and lips on my tremendous cock only spurred the organ to greater firmness and need. Precum spat from my slit like a bubbling hot spring. I thought about Johnny’s brief kiss, the last thing I’d experienced before I’d passed out. As I’d closed my eyes, I’d been looking at Johnny’s pecs, of course, and I’d noticed a strange thing. There’s been a damp spot in Johnny’s pants where he’d almost cum himself while he was getting me off. But I’d noticed something that gave me a final surge of arousal before everything went back—the same kind of dark, wet spot right round Johnny’s thick, pokey nipples.
My cock surged hard, almost defiantly. I shook my head, looking around at my surroundings as if there might be something lying near at hand to train a cock to behave. The room looked quite pleasant in the low light from the bedside lamp. It was more livable than over-elegant, thank god—no spindly chairs or useless objets-d’art depicting crazed satyrs or Roman godlings, just sturdy, well-made furniture and subdued, well-appointed décor. Directly opposite me was a large, dark fireplace, currently unlit, and above the mantel was a large abstract painting, though as I looked at it I found I wasn’t quite sure whether it was a painting, or something else. It depicted an array of a dozen pale white discs, each with a beveled circle carved a quarter of the way in from the edge, all scattered across the surface of the painting and presenting at different angles, so that some showed the full face of the disc’s circle while some were almost edge-on. The strangest thing was that I almost felt like they were moving, but minutely slowly—revolving on their axes and shifting through space as well, and perhaps the whole assembly was revolving and shifting too, with respect to whatever space it occupied.
I smiled at the thing, because I knew this was my powerful imagination playing tricks on me. But I could feel something the painting, only it was the same feeling I got from the house. And that feeling was…I wasn’t sure. Readiness. It felt like readiness.
My stiff, towering cock was radiating heat in the pleasantly cool room. I let my thoughts drift back to what Johnny had given me as I licked my own lips, staring down at my tool. The truth was that the touch of Johnny’s mouth had been almost revelatory, like I’d not only never had a blowjob before, I’d never even imagined the possibility. I remembered his hot, moist breath as he bent over my cock, just huffing warm breath across the shaft, and I found myself doing the same, bending forward and letting my hot, ragged breaths huff across my rigid, superfat tool, shuddering as I felt the pleasure of my own breaths across sensitive, eager, pre-slick skin.
Sweat pricked in the middle of my back as I sank deeper into the memory. Johnny had lowered his mouth so that it was not quite making contact with the stubby head of my too-thick cock, then, slowly, he’d let his tongue loll around the edge. This much, I could do as well, and I was so enthralled by the memory of that simple moment, that brief, exhilarating gift of fellatio between two horny, appreciative strangers-turned-something else, that I wanted to recapture it, to share it again with myself. I lowered my mouth until it was encircling my head without touching, then slowly extended my tongue and shuddered violently as I felt tongue and heated cock make contact, the musky pre skittering over my tastebuds as I deliberately moved my tongue in a lethargic circle around the head, teasing myself just as Johnny had done.
This was as far as I’d ever been able to take care of myself; my cock was big and always more than ready to be taken care of, but I was only so flexible, though I’d seriously considered looking into what kinds of yoga might help me accomplish more on those occasions when I sought to worship my own cock. But now, tonight, it was not enough. I was drowning deep in the memory of Johnny’s ministrations, and nothing less would do. I felt everything he’d done to me as if it were happening again, as if I were truly repeating the moment. The way he slipped from teasing licks and breaths into passionate lathing every surface of my dick, the monster grasped firmly at the hilt as he finally took the whole head into his hot mouth and sucked, drawing my fat cock deeper and deeper into his mouth, as his tongue and lips worked against the shaft to squeeze every iota of pleasure out of me, until finally he reached where his hand was gripping the base of my cock. It was the most basic part of a fellatio, and yet I was so thick, so big around, that no one had ever been able to do this beautiful, brain-meltingly euphoric thing before. And then, even as I teetered already on the cliff’s edge, ready to orgasm even from such a simple act as this, Johnny had suddenly pulled away his hand and impaled himself on my enormous cock all the way to the root.
The world seemed to shift, wrenching minutely around an invisible axis.
And as I experienced again the explosive rush of that sudden wonderful shock, I felt it again. I felt my cock pushing straight into a throat like it belonged there, sheathing itself, and it was so perfect that I exploded in an orgasm even more massive and earth-shattering that the one I’d had before—perhaps because it was my throat this time. I’d wanted to share that moment again with myself, and I had, and I started cumming hard—so hard I had to pull off my cock and let jet after jet of cum splash across my face.
I laughed, feeling weirdly liberated. I’d never cum like this, not ever. I’d never had a really good blow job, not until Johnny had given me that gift, and then I’d let my imagination share it with myself again.
Only—it wasn’t only imagination, was it. Because… when I slid down and collapsed on my back in the bed, my cock, which normally plopped right across my lower abs when it was still hard and recovering from an orgasm, now slapped heavy and wet across half my torso, the head smearing hot cum over the sensitive skin just below my pecs. In fact my slit was at this moment a centimeter away from my left nipple, and was threatening to douse same in leftover cum from my big, still-spasming balls.
I gaped at my schlong for a long, moment, then dropped my head back onto the soft pillows of my new bed in what already felt like my new home, no matter that I’d come here firmly intending to stay two weeks at most.
Something was fucking with my head.
Or, my intuition suddenly objected, maybe my head was fucking with something.
I’d wanted something, something that involved a memory I wanted to have again. And somehow… somehow… my cock had made it happen. My cock had given me that memory, by shoving itself into my mouth beyond the inch I could reach… bursting upward into my mouth, into my throat, exploding in side until I could have that same feeling, of filling a mouth, of being swallowed, of cumming violently down the same throat that was constructing it.
As I lay there, my eyes flicked up to the painting of the plates. They were definitely moving, even it if it was at a speed I knew I could not actually see. Was it doing something? Was I? I stared at it, demanding answers; but the painting remained silent, not responding in any perceptible way.
I fell to pondering recent events.
I had used my imagination to make a memory happen again, only… something had happened and my imagination—always vivid and powerful, my whole life—had somehow been augmented by an extra kick of reality.
But then something else occurred to me.
In that first moment, when Johnny had wrapped his mouth around my head without touch, I had imagined. I had lain there and imagined him taking my too-massive cock, further and further into his mouth, until he’d reached the hand he had wrapped around the base. And then, I’d imagined more, greedy bastard that I was. I imagined him deep-throating me like no one should ever have been able to do. The world had wrenched then, too. And my vivid, sex-drench fantasy had been …somehow …augmented with that extra kick of reality.
I watched the plates almost not turning in the painting, cocking my head at it. “Are you helping me?” I asked, still in that low, quiet voice. I felt dizzy, confused. “Or, am I helping you? What do you get out of all this?” I wasn’t even sure what I was saying. There was something… a something?… but——
I shook my head. I only knew one person on Earth who even stood a chance of helping me answer questions like that, and he was currently three levels below me and a hundred meters east in the south wing, making us lasagna and corn bread for a late dinner. My stomach growled loudly at the thought and I laughed, bounding up out of bed, my finally flaccid but still huge cock flapping against my pale, firm thighs as I found a pair of beat-up jeans and went in search of the man with the mesmerizing pecs.