Sexy smile

by BRK   

Con opens a magical birthday present that is bound to enhance his encounters with other guys, something that's always been a problem for him on account of his not being very good with people. Unfortunately, he opens the gift at pretty much exactly the wrong moment.

I was an idiot for fucking around with the talisman while I was still trapped on an airplane in the middle of the night halfway across Atlantic Ocean, with three more hours to go before we even saw land. I knew it, too, but I was bored. No, it wasn’t just that, I was dying of curiosity about Nana’s gift. Sure, her last present had been a disaster, but she’d sworn that this one would “make up for the other time” and I just had to know.

Now I was sitting there on the plane, and I was feeling something strange happening to me. More than just the flush of arousal that was stealing through my insides, heating my cheeks and setting my dick twitching—I felt that all the time, whenever I thought about my sweet, bashful, and totally hot boyfriend and how we can’t get enough of each other, especially when it comes to making out. Just thinking about seeing him sat the airport, waiting there to pick me up, and his face lighting up when he sees me and closing the distance between us in a heartbeat and throwing his string arms around me ad kissing me senseless for hours while my bags revolve around and around and around the luggage carousel—fuck, I’d been shifting between half-hard and fully boned ever since we took off from Heathrow, and for most of my month of vacation/informal internship in London for that matter, just anticipating that first moment when our tongues would meet again and I’d taste him and hold him and not fucking let go.

But I hadn’t been able to forget about the birthday gift, either. She’d sent it ahead to London a couple weeks early, and I knew she thought she was helping with me and my first real boyfriend relationship thing. They’ve all been worried about me being a surly, introverted teen, and now I was an adult they were more meddling than ever—hence last year’s disastrous gift. well, sort of disastrous. It had helped me get my guy in the end, but it was fucking weird there for a while and I got the feeling that this time she wanted to make it up to me. I’d toyed with the box for a couple days, unable to get out of my head how much it might make things even better with my guy, but also not forgetting what happened the last time Nana tried to make my sex life better.

Finally I caved. I was bored and horny and missing my guy and his sweet, sweet mouth, and I’d seen all the episodes of How I Met Your Mother I cared to watch on the little in-flight TV, and my dick was threatening to get so hard my jeans would rip open if I didn’t distract myself somehow. So I pulled the little intricately carved cherry-wood box out of my bag and opened it. Staring at the smooth, flat, oblong river stone inside, I took in the simple sketch of a mouth with what looked like a tongue hanging out, done in black brush ink with the fewest strokes. The reverse said, “best kisses”.

I knew better. Fuck, did I know better. But how could I turn down—not just better kisses, but best kisses? Before I could stop myself, I stroked my thumb over the painted smile three times. When I pulled my thumb away, the design was gone. Hastily I closed the box and tucked it away. Then I settled into my seat and waited.

I started thinking about my guy. My sweet, cute, snuggly, sexually voracious guy. His long, limber body that was surprisingly defined when you got his clothes off. His just a bit bigger that average hands and feet—and his quite a bit bigger than average cock, long and flat and wide and curving slightly away from the vertical in a beautiful, gentle arc, unlike my oversized sky-pointing cement pillar of a prick. His cute, boy-next-door face, with the strong jawline and the high cheekbones and those bright brown eyes. And that mouth—wide and eager, with full lips and a tongue that my tongue wanted to marry and never be apart from. And his smile—fuck. That sweet, coy, secretly carnal smile that had hooked me before I’d even realized it.

My dick was doing the thing I’d been trying to avoid without much success. It was getting hard, unstoppably. I was feeling warm and tingly with arousal and need from toes to balls to my pounding heart to my very soul. But something else happening. My tongue was feeling thick and heavy, and weirdly sensitive. It was feeling aroused, like it needed to be stroked and touched in a way that before had just been metaphorical, but now was very real. It was swelling, stirring and uncoiling and thickening right there in the hot, moist confines of my astonished mouth.

My tongue was getting a hard-on. A real hard-on, just like a penis. Exactly like a penis. As it thickened and stiffened in my mouth, I could feel the shaft, as fat and huge as my own dick, swelling to maximum hardness right there in one of my body’s shrines to hard dick. And the head—I could feel the head, pushing forward as it boned, moments away from shoving rudely and unstoppably right through my desperately clenching lips, and out—out in to the free world.

I was drowned in conflicting feelings and emotions. Sure, I was thrilled for what this would mean for my make-out sessions with my guy, which would now probably never end except for food and—well, really the only think that would stop us was not starving to death. Except there was the little problem of being up an airplane, still thousands for miles from that reunion, and with the hunky cabin steward who’d been eyeing me the whole trip headed right for me with the drinks cart, just as things were starting to get strange for me in an entirely new way.

Every family has that one relative who’s a little naïve and a little nutty and lives in a vast, underground mansion on a deserted rainforest island with her equally nutty and immortal girlfriend and gives magical birthday presents and thinks everyone should be having sweet, passionate sex all the time, right? No? … Well anyway ours does, and while we all love Nana Joe (apparently she was born a boy? so she’s really my grandpa? but she’s been living as a girl for the last few decades because she really likes lesbian sex?) and she definitely means well we’re all a little leery of her gifts. Except because they tend to be sexy, and they’re coming from this sweet old lady who’s also the family matriarch, nobody fucking talks about it. Plus I’ve always been a loner, happier alone in my room than hanging out with the fam talking about weird stuff, or any stuff for that matter. Which means my first “adult” gift from her caught me completely by surprise.

I should explain that Nana Joe’s little magical gifts tend to be completely innocent up until you hit your eighteenth birthday. Most of the time they’re pretty harmless and small-scale, like the pen she sent me for my twelfth birthday that never dries up (which I promptly lost a month later, because, hello, I’m that guy) or that brush I got when I was eight that also trims your hair for you so you don’t have to go to the barber, which was kind of cool except the thing wanted my hair to be short and I wanted to grow it out (I wanted to go for the tousled and messy look, which, to be honest, I still do). So I ended up giving it to my long-haired sister as a gag. The screams when she tried it for the first time! I was laughing for a week. I felt bad later, I promise.

Anyway it was all pretty innocent stuff until I turned 18. Tokens good for one spot of good luck, that kind of thing. Though in my late teens I started wondering how innocent they really were, like that inexhaustible bar of soap she gave when I was fifteen that was supposed to get me really, really clean, except I realized a lot later it was after that that I started noticing in the mirror how I was actually kind of cute, which was weird. And a few months after I started using the soap I became aware my shirts and jeans were getting a little tight in certain strategic locations, though I’d already done my growth spurt and then some a few years back, topping out at 6’3”. I decided at the time it was just a growing up thing, but now I’m not so sure.

Anyway, I was already away at Notre Dame, three weeks into my first semester, when my eighteenth birthday rolled around. (Ever notice how a lot of people have birthdays in September? They sure do in my family, anyway. I wonder why that is?) The family tradition was that you always went to your own room at locked the door when you got Nana’s gifts. I’d always thought that was weird, especially since Mom and Dad tended to go to their room together when either if them had a birthday, And of course you didn’t talk about it afterwards, which was extra-weird, but family traditions are family traditions, right? Plus, that meant Sissy didn’t know about the brush before it gave her that cute pixie haircut that made her scream her lungs dry, which I swear I totally felt bad about at some point afterwards. (Sissy’s real name is Snow, which, yeah, guess who’s in charge of naming everyone in the family? Sis will punch you in the face if you call her that. Everyone in my generation got nature names. I got off easy with Conifer, believe me—at least I can shorten in to Con, and people assume it’s short for Connor. My cousin Blue always gets asked about his clues and where his buddy Steve was, which got really funny when he was dating a guy named Steve for a while and no one was sure if he did it on purpose just to shut people up.)

So I was glad to discover my adorably nerdy roommate, Brian, was away at his first classes when I got back from the campus post office. I was still a loner, and while there’s well-trodden path for that through high school, and I’d gotten out unscathed and even almost unnoticed, I wasn’t sure about college, which seemed designed to make sure you made friends and accumulated a crowd whether you liked it or not. Brian said it was because I was super cute—which he followed with a truly adorkable blush. I guess I’d been able to hide it better in high school (it helped that Mom had bought me a whole new ridiculous set of clothes for college that were all like what you see guys wearing in CW teen dramas—and refused to let me take a single one of my endless supply of hoodies with me). I locked the door, sat down at my desk, and ripped open the plain brown craft paper to find a small, midnight-blue wooden box. It was beautiful, engraved with intricate Celtic designs (Nana was going through a Celtic phase), and I wondered if the box itself was the gift.

It wasn’t, though. Inside was a stone—round, flat, but otherwise ordinary, bluish black and smooth, like it had come from a creek bed. On it was painted a simple outline of a smile—two curved lines, both deep, dark red and going from thin to thick as if done with a small calligraphy brush. I stared at it, perplexed, then turned it over. On the bottom of the stone was etched in small square letters, “sexy smile”. Ironically, this made me frown. Turning the stone disc over I gave in to a strange impulse to brush the pad of my thumb over the painted smile. I couldn’t quite feel the texture of the paint on the glossy surface, but I felt like I could sense it, like extremely low-voltage electricity.

After three passes with my thumb I realized the painted smile had vanished. I gaped at the stone, then quickly turned my hand over, looking for the paint I’d rubbed off; but it was all gone. Even the low-grade, faint tingle I was feeling in my hand went away, though it felt as though it hadn’t so much dissipated as snuck up my arm and made itself scarce somewhere inside me. Mystified, I turned the stone back over. In place of “sexy smile” there was now a new inscription that simply read “enjoy!” I cocked my head at it. That was Nana—for her, “enjoy!” really was a command, since she firmly believed that pleasure, especially shared pleasure, was the cure for all the world’s ills. But I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to take pleasure from in this instance. The little tingle had been nice, but I’d gotten a better buzz from rum raisin cookies.

This must be some kind of message, I mused. I knew the family was a little worried about my unwillingness to engage with my peers socially at the level of conversation and shared meals, much less seek out more intimate encounters, and the general concern must have found its way to Nana’s love nest under Ketchican Island. It was a not the kind of gift I’d expected, though, and I wasn’t sure I wasn’t disappointed. Was Nana caring enough about me to try to get me to go out and meet someone better than a hair-shearing magic brush? I didn’t know. I ruffled my messy brown hair absently with my free hand, something I usually did when I was uneasy or unsure of myself.

My brows still furrowed, I put the stone back into the beautiful box, set the box into my desk drawer with all my supplies and other various random shit, and decided I had a choice between doing biology homework (I was on track for pre-med) or pulling on a jacket to go kill time in the graphic novel section at the bookstore. Fifteen minutes later I was browsing the shelves looking for the latest installment of my favorite series when I heard a voice close behind me say, “Can I help you find something?”

I turned around to find a very handsome bookstore dude, with loose, wavy, dark blond hair and a gymnast’s body straining his tight logo-emblazoned polo and dark chinos. He was looking at me curiously, like there was something about me that was bugging him a little and he couldn’t quite figure it out.

Normally I hate dealing with store salespeople, or anyone in a commercial environment, or really people in general, but every once in a while you have to deal. “I’m looking for The View from Platform Five,” I began. “You have one through seven here, but—”

Bookstore dude interrupted me, though not rudely. “Volume eight just came in,” he said, in a tone of voice that told me that while he didn’t care that much he didn’t quite get people that were into Platfive. “It’s over on the new arrivals wall,” he added, gesturing with his chin to the wall at the end of the aisle behind me.

My day instantly got ten times better, and I beamed at him delightedly. “Really?” I said. “That’s awesome!”

As soon as I was smiling at him, bookstore dude’s faintly vexed curiosity vanished. Instead his eyes widened comically and he sucked in a surprised breath, and then, before I could turn to hunt down my long-awaited copy of Platfive 8, he had wrapped a warm, strong hand around my neck and was pulling me in for a sweet, thorough kiss. His lips brushed mine once, then again, before he covered my mouth with his. His nostrils flared as he drew in a deep, long breath, and I did the same, my eyes closing automatically as I took in the heat of his skin and the pressure of his full, slightly damp lips. I felt his tongue slip tentatively along the seal of my lips, gently requesting entry, and a full-bodied shiver took me as my tongue awoke as if it had been awoken to its purpose for the first time in its life by this more knowledgeable specimen of its own kind.

At first I had been too taken by surprise to react, but then I was like, fuck, this guy is amazing at this, and reluctantly opened for him. He slid his tongue gently into my mouth, probing, testing, seeking the simple joy of mutual pleasure, and my own eager tongue rose and twined eagerly around it, and they were dancing ecstatically as our lips mashed and we shared our secret and unique taste with each other. I was barely aware of anything but our mouths, our lips, and our tongues, though I was dimly aware of his firm, reassuring grip on my next, and the way he had snaked his other hand around under my jacket, caressing my lower back.

It was also around then I realized that my dick, which really doesn’t like to be soft and had been taking shorter and short naps ever since I’d found myself in the beautiful-guy eye-candy store that is college, was already inflated well past “chubbed” and was well on its way to “steel girder”.

Fuck. I couldn’t be popping a boner in the bookstore. I couldn’t be kissing a guy in the bookstore—I couldn’t be kissing anyone anywhere! The spell suddenly broken, I pulled back and stared at him. Bookstore dude immediately dropped his hands and took a step back from me, as if he’d been caught making out with a cardboard cutout of Justin Bieber. He cut his eyes away sheepishly, his cheeks flushed, but he also seemed to want to keep within arm’s reach.

“Dude—” I said. My face was feeling a little heated as well. I knew I liked guys, but I had never kissed one, never ever ever. My dick was throbbing in my jeans, big and hard and obvious. It felt like it was using its heat to shout at everyone around me, “Con’s got a boner! Con’s got a bo-oner!!”

Bookstore dude seemed to be trying to look anywhere but at me or my dick. “I don’t know why I did that,” he mumbled.

“Why did you do that?” I asked him, still reeling a little. It had been a really good kiss.

He met my gaze then, taken aback. “I don’t know!” he repeated. Then he grinned. And because it was funny, I grinned too. Instantly it happened again: bookstore dude’s eyes widened, he drew in a sharp breath, and then we were making out again, right there in the graphic novel aisle, with a vintage Cerebus the Aardvark glowing at us from the “cult classics” shelf over bookstore dude’s left shoulder. This time it was even more intense, and yet at the same time it was more sensual than rough. Bookstore dude wanted me, but not because he was hungry for some serious tonsil hockey but because he liked making out with me. Me, the guy who’d dropped out of the high school swim team despite being good at dives and backstrokes because swim meets involved too much conversation. And, yeah, okay, gorgeous naked bodies I’d never touch ever.

Come to think of it, bookstore dude was at least as hot as Yuri, the swim captain I’d lusted after for a semester and a half (and more, if you counted cafeteria sightings). And we were touching. I had even impulsively wrapped my arms around him, and we were pressed tight, holding each other and making out like we were one of those couples that did that and nothing else. I could feel his big, rigid cock throbbing against my hip, and I knew he could feel mine on the other side, like a mirror image; but it wasn’t about sex, not at the moment. It was about—this, just this. My heart was pounding like it wanted out, and then suddenly there was a very real danger that I was about to get close enough to not be able to stop myself from blowing my wad right there in my jeans. I tore myself away from him and took two steps back, panting hard.

We stared at each other, faces flushed, lips swollen. Fuck, he was hot. If I could have touched myself right then I’d have cum within seconds all over the place, and that judgmental prick Cerebus could go fuck himself. “What the hell was that?” I managed to get out.

Bookstore dude was shaking his head, clearly as bewildered as I was. “I don’t know,” he huffed again, still catching his breath. Then a smile bloomed on his heated face. “It was hot, though, right?” he added. “You’re an awesome kisser.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. My heart was still racing, and I wasn’t sure my knees were structurally sound at the moment. Feeling like I owed him the truth more than sarcasm I added, “You too. Awesome kisser, I mean.”

He grinned at me, then cocked his head slightly to one side, as if appraising me. “I think it’s your smile,” he said.

Whatever happiness I was feeling under my shame fell off me and splatted on the ground like a scoop of mint chocolate chip falling off a double-scoop ice cream cone. My brows crowded together, but just then a calm voice came over the overhead speakers. “Dennis, please report to the textbooks,” it said, and bookstore dude looked up guiltily, then met my gaze again. He took a step backwards, preparing to go, but reluctant to tear his gaze away from me despite my rapidly darkening expression. “You have a sexy smile,” he said happily, then he turned and headed down the long aisle for the textbooks section, turning to look at me only once before he turned a corner and was lost from view.

I was still staring at him. No way. No fucking way. Nana was seriously going to get a very unique kind of thank you letter that was not a thank you letter at all. “Sexy smile”? And I’d walked right into it, rubbing the spell into me like I was some kind of rube. Fuck you, Nana, I thought, even as my tingling lips and still-throbbing dick were signing themselves up for the Nana Fan Club. A half-suppressed memory resurfaced of one of the times we’d gone to visit my reclusive forebear when I was a little kid and I’d gone around hugging and kissing the replica classical statues in the Fancy Parlor—and then we’d gone into the Rustic Parlor, which was full of taxidermied bears and muskrats and raccoons, and I’d hugged and kissed those too. It was so humiliating to know I’d done that in front of everyone that I couldn’t quite suppress a groan. Because I just knew that one of the thoughts weaving through Nana’s twisted brain when she was dreaming up what to give me for my birthday must have been something like, “Why doesn’t little Conifer like to kiss anymore?”

“That was so hot,” said another voice, deep, warm, and awestruck. Starting out of my reverie I turned to see a cute twink staring at me from a few feet away—obviously he’d been there the whole time. He actually had a hand to his chest, as if he were ready to swoon from the man-loving he’d just witnessed.

Very careful to keep the corners of my mouth pointed firmly down, and ignoring how much my newly motivated and purpose-aware tongue was yearning to be back inside an endless Conifer/Bookstore Dude mack, I breezed past our one-twink fan club, striding purposefully toward the new arrivals shelf. I grabbed my copy of Platfive volume 8, paid for it, and bolted.

The next year started out disappointingly for all concerned. Dennis and I dated for a while, which I decided I was grudgingly willing to try despite my sociopathy after that sequence of not one but two brain-melting, heart-stopping kisses. But I managed to sabotage it, inevitably, by keeping my face contorted 24/7 in a permanent glower. I was determined, you see, to prove we could have connection without benefit of occult love-craft. The kissing was still great, and we … tried a few other things, quite successfully. But the thing between us wasn’t quite working, mostly because I was second-guessing everything about us; and when we met after his shift one night just before Thanksgiving and he told me that he really missed my smile, I nodded and let him go, and we walked home sadly from the bookstore in opposite directions. Brian, who had been watching me with someone else in obvious agony, was just as upset that I was now unhappily broken up. Grumpy and heartbroken, not least because I was now convinced I could only get a guy by aiming Nana’s magic at them, I was sorely tempted to toss a smile at Brian just to give us both a few moments of relief from our anxieties. I drove home for the holiday weekend as glum as fuck, causing my parents a new round of concern about my social retardation.

Finally Mom had enough of my personal raincloud dampening everyone else’s spirits. At lunch on Saturday she grabbed my chin all of a sudden and commanded sternly, “Darn it, Conifer James Stonewright! Smile for your mother!”

I recoiled back from her in horror so hard, I tipped my chair over backwards and crashed painfully to the floor. “Keep away!” I gasped, staring up at her aghast. Then I scrambled to my feet and fled to my room while Dad and Sissy laughed their asses off.

A few moments later Dad knocked on my door. When I opened it and he saw I was still freaked out he started chuckling all over again.

“‘Sexy smile’, huh?” Dad said knowingly, and I instantly understood that this was a recurring item in Nana’s bag of tricks.

“What the hell is wrong with her?” I groused, turning and heading over to sit on the side of my old bed. Dad took the desk chair. I glowered darkly at him.

He was still highly amused. “You do understand it doesn’t work on family members, right?” he said. “Or anyone you don’t already have a connection with. I mean, this is Nana we’re talking about,” he added. “She just wants people to have fun.”

I stared at him a second longer, then sighed like a tire letting out all its air. “Sexy fun,” I amended gloomily. It occurred to me that if Dad had gotten the “sexy smile” thing then maybe it hadn’t been something Nana had cooked up just for me because I was a little freak that one time we visited, and I actually felt a little disappointed. Maybe Dad went around Nana’s kissing stuffed raccoons too, I thought morosely.

Dad shrugged, the picture of unperturbed equanimity. “Nothing wrong with sexy fun, Con,” he said. Then he actually winked, and I knew he was thinking about sexytimes with Mom, and I felt a residual shudder pass through me. Parents! Honestly.

“It is when you only get guys because you’re literally casting a spell on them,” I complained. Then my stomach twisted up as I suddenly realized I’d never officially come out to my parents. I hadn’t dated, or even had many friends, so it hadn’t come up. I watched Dad nervously through my lashes, but he didn’t even react to what I’d said.

“It’s not like that,” Dad said patiently. “Like I said, you have to have a connection. Think of it… think of it like lube,” he explained thoughtfully. He seemed to warm to this analogy, continuing with a proud smile, “It’s something you already want to do, and this just makes it … easier.”

I gaped at him. “Please stop talking,” I pleaded.

Dad laughed and stood up, clapping me on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” he said, as he turned and headed for my door. “Enjoy it! I sure did,” he added with a smirk.

“Oh my god,” I said, mortified. “Will you go? Please?”

My father, that cruel bastard, actually tossed me one more wink before closing the door behind him and heading back downstairs. I shuddered violently and vowed never to smile again.

But as it turned out, Dad’s talk really did help, and I managed to crawl out of my gloom and have a decent freshman year. After a lot of thinking about it back and forth in my head, and a few beers borrowed from my neighbor’s fridge, I went for broke and let myself smile at Brian, late one Friday night in our room. I figured we both liked each other, and we were both so bashful and socially reticent that forever would pass before either of us made the first move. So I … made it easier. Brian brightened up and smiled at me so incandescently (before he jumped on top of me) that I didn’t regret my choice. And as it turns out, Brian was a really good kisser, even better than Dennis. And he was better than Dennis at other things, too.

So Brian and I became one of those couples I’d joked about, because, well, he really did make me smile, and in our case that led quickly to long make-out sessions, arms twined around each other and the two of us barely pausing for breath, whether we were standing in line for hot dogs at a home football game, or meeting up after class, or alone in our cozy room. We quickly learned we had to spend time apart, especially if we wanted to get any studying done (he was on an engineering track), but that just made our intimate moments that much nicer. I was still careful to keep my smiles to myself otherwise (including visits home, whatever Dad says), but by and large I’d forgiven Nana by the time I got her gift for my nineteenth birthday—which only screwed everything up all over again.

The impossibly handsome star-Olympic-swimmer-somehow-moonlighting-as-a-crisply-uniformed-and-very-attentive-flight-steward (… or at least, that was how I was seeing him in my current, helplessly aroused and testosterone-drunk condition) was making his way toward me, up the aisle, pulling a drinks and snacks cart with a female steward on the other side. She was paying attention to the middle seats on the other side of the aisle, whereas Nathan Adrian there … was looking right at me, eyebrow cocked and lips quirked. He thought he knew what was on my mind, but he didn’t know the half of it. (Fridge logic, right? The half of it? Because he only knew about one of my straining boners? Right, whatever.)

Milliseconds before my extremely rude mouthdick was about to push its way out past my lips—which were strong and well exercised but no match for this thing—I hurriedly clapped a hand over my mouth and jumped up out of my seat, never as glad as I was now for always reserving the aisle seat. Nathan the swimmer-steward had just reached my row, which meant that I literally had to shoulder past him as I got into the narrow aisle and pelted toward the rear toilets, one hand still over my mouth and different parts of my brain taking turns cursing Nana and my own curiosity in equal measure.

Just as I got to the toilet, though, I paused, reconsidering. What was I going to do? I couldn’t hole up in there for the duration, but I also couldn’t parade around with—I sheered my brain away from my mouthdick, not because I couldn’t believe it but because it felt amazing.

Now that it had shoved past my lips, exposing the head and just a smidgen of fat, heavy shaft, I was truly in trouble. It was like my own dick in many ways, including being really thick, kinda long, and cut, with a wide head and very … sensitive … skin. And right now, my lips were

wrapped

around it.

It felt heavy. It felt rigid and strong and sensitive, but most of all it was aching for touch. The shuddering breaths I was passing around its girth, in, out, in, out—that was turning it on, turning me on. Being heavy and hard and potent, that was turning it on. It was swollen with sexual mojo, radiating power and musky desire from its weeping head and long, straining shaft.

But it needed to be touched. Not by hands, though my hand was right there, still clamped over its protrusion, already damp and slick with its eager secretions, already used to the feel of it poking playfully forward, right into the center of the palm. It needed to be touched, but not by hands—by lips. It desperately needed to be touched by lips. My lips, they were there, and they would help. They would be almost enough. Almost.

“Are you all right, sir?”

Whipping around, I was caught off balance and only kept from falling down by grabbing at the beautiful steward with my free hand. I grabbed onto his iron-hard shoulder through his uniform shirt. It was kind of steadying, in that my mind stopped reeling quite so fast and seemed to gain some equilibrium, so I didn’t take my hand away just yet.

I met his gaze. He seemed both curious and solicitous, a little concerned, but also he seemed to be finding me very arousing, on a scale he wasn’t used to, but it seemed like he was prepared to shrug and go with it. He still had that eyebrow cocked, which for some reason went straight to my balls, where his hard, bulging shoulders and steamy gaze and every other sexy fucking thing about him had already gone and scooped up dick-front rental property and moved the fuck in. Geezus! I have a boyfriend! God, did this gift make me sex-stupid on top of everything else? I was staring at him

Lips His lips were luscious and inviting, and just slightly parted

Lips I couldn’t take my eyes off them , they were , I needed

lips

Just then the plane started to shake like we’d suddenly gone from fill to agitate. The dark, handsome steward seemed to remember his duties. “Sir, you should retake your seat until the turbulence passes,” he said. Slowly I shook my head.

“Sir, I really—” he began, but the plane shook again, harder this time, eliciting a few yelps of surprise and general murmuring from the other passengers. Almost losing my footing this time I reached out and grabbed the steward with my other hand, and it took me a second before it registered with me. The steward was staring at me in wide-eyed awe.

I would have bitten my lip nervously if I could, but all I could do was stare back at him.

The turbulence steadied for the moment. “Sir, I—” the hot steward started to say weakly, unable to tear his eyes from my mouth. A flood of memories from a year ago came to me then. The bookstore. My first kiss, and what had made it possible.

Now, it was not just possible, it was necessary. Not even sure how well it would work now that a rigid, throbbing, aching cock was thrusting out between my lips, not sure quite how the hot jock steward whose iron-banded shoulders I was grasping would even react, I did something I still did outside my dorm room only under carefully controlled circumstances. Slowly, deliberately, I let myself smile.

His eyes darkened.

A moment later we were squeezed into the tiny bathroom and his lips were around my desperate mouthcock even as he freed my normal equipment and his own from their confines, both of us knowing that we were each so close to the cliff’s edge that this encounter would not only be a sprint, not a marathon—it would be a fucking twenty-yard dash. His lips were nearly orgasmic all by themselves, and to feel this—this simple combination of sensations: to kiss, and to be sucked, and to hold each other—it was like no pleasure that had ever been invented before.

And as I rapidly hurtled toward the brink of orgasm, I was more certain of one thing than anyone else had ever known anything ever: that if I did this with someone I loved, it would be like worlds colliding and stars exploding. It would be perfect, euphoric love, over and over again, forever.

Suddenly I was cumming violently, jizz rocketing out of both my cocks, and the swimmer-hunk-steward was drinking it down eagerly like it was the spunk of the gods; and as I came I thought, Just let me get home to you, Brian, let me just get home to you, and no one else will know this but us. I want to give you this joy, this love. I want this for you.

And, for maybe the first time ever, I smiled … inside.

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