by Xavier Mayne
His worry about not waking the other men was misplaced, however. They were awake and were in fact fully engaged, at the moment, on the balcony. Sandler must have remembered what Rutherford had said about the privacy of the balcony, of which he and Ankur were currently taking full advantage.
Sandler fully reclined on one of the chaise lounges, Ankur astride him, sitting straight upright, back arched. He rose up a few inches and eased himself back down, a look of frank delight on his face. Sandler tipped his head back and huffed out several breaths as Ankur repeated his transit, up and down, then reached out, laid his hands on Ankur’s hips, and held him down firmly. He bucked his hips upward, thrusting fiercely.
Donnelly took a step back. He meant to take more but didn’t.
Sandler’s cock, he noticed, was striking. It wasn’t Brandt-sized, or even as long as his own, but it was substantial. Glossy and wide, it was illuminated by the rose-orange of dawn as it slammed into, and rapidly withdrew from, Ankur.
Impaled vigorously, Ankur bobbed atop Sandler, and his head lolled to one side. He was looking right into Donnelly’s eyes.
Donnelly took another step back, mortified at being seen until he remembered that the glass was heavily tinted and from the outside presented a mirror rather than a window. Ankur could only see himself, the object of that cock’s rough and repeated attention. The two men locked eyes, Donnelly watching as waves of passionate concentration washed over Ankur’s face, Ankur transfixed by his own reflection—or, rather, the image of Sandler’s thrusting cock burying itself in his ass over and over again.
Ankur’s eyes rolled back, and he turned away from the window to focus his attention on Sandler, who was clearly reaching the point of no return. The expression on his face transformed from eager excitement to gathering tension; the sculpted concavity of his buttocks as he thrust up into Ankur grew deeper as he pistoned ever more rapidly.
Donnelly stepped forward.
Sandler’s eyes squeezed shut. His thrusting ceased as the orgasm locked his body into a plank-like rigidity. Ankur, however, began a gyrating dance of rising-falling-twisting motion that astonished Donnelly with its sinuous, demanding intensity. Sandler jolted and brought a hand to his mouth in an apparent effort to stifle a cry. Donnelly watched as he bit down on his hand and writhed under Ankur’s ministrations.
Donnelly took another step forward.
Ankur watched, a look of joy on his face, while Sandler shook and spasmed. He didn’t let up until Sandler returned to himself and was able to draw several deep breaths. Ankur bent forward and kissed him, his hands stroking Sandler’s face, his lips murmuring words that Donnelly wanted desperately to hear. Then Sandler pushed Ankur back upright and grasped his jutting cock with both hands. Ankur leaned back, putting his hands on Sandler’s knees to brace himself, and closed his eyes as Sandler stroked him. His orgasm, Donnelly was fascinated to see, was of a completely different kind than Sandler’s; he sighed, smiled, and finally seemed to float away on the current of it as he laced Sandler’s glistening chest with white. Finally he folded himself over onto Sandler and they embraced, nuzzling each other tenderly in the golden glow of morning.
Donnelly withdrew from the room, feeling he had witnessed something almost sacred. Then the enormity of what he had done broke over him, and the breath in his lungs turned stony with shame. He had watched two people share the most private experience humans are capable of, and he had done so willingly, excitedly. Why had he not run from the room as soon as he saw them? Why had he stepped closer? Why was his penis hard, a wet spot spreading across the front of his shorts from its jutting head?
He had no answers, so he bolted for the elevator and jabbed the down button. The door slid open instantly, and just as he stepped inside, he heard the balcony door open, bringing with it happy, refractory voices. The doors closed, and Donnelly went down.
Airport, Los Angeles
“I CAN’T believe this is good-bye.” Bryce dabbed theatrically at the corners of his eyes. “Now we’ll never know whether Desirée finds enduring happiness with Bolt.”
Virgil smiled. “Here,” he said, handing Bryce the cheap paperback. “My gift to you.”
Bryce clutched the book to his chest as if it were a trophy. “Thank you, my dear. You and Desirée have taught us so much already.”
“You’ve taught me some things too,” Virgil replied with a laugh. “Promise you’ll text me if you ever decide to hit the road again, okay?”
“When I need my load hauled, you shall be the first to know,” Bryce solemnly promised.
Virgil opened the door of the truck and stepped down. He turned back and held up his hand, inviting Bryce to follow. Bryce did, and Virgil caught him in a bear hug.
“Oh my,” Bryce exclaimed, deeply thrilled to be embraced by the trucker. “I shall remember the strength of these arms around me for many nights to come.”
Nestor followed, launching himself into Virgil’s arms like a lovestruck puppy. Virgil bore his negligible weight easily and playfully mussed his jet-black hair.
“Nestor, my nuts are going to be shooting dust for a week. You have magic in your hands, and your mouth—”
“And up the butt,” Nestor purred, nuzzling Virgil’s neck.
“And up the butt,” Virgil repeated, laughing hard as he set Nestor down. “Now, you travel safe, okay?”
“With Desirée as our guide, what could possibly go wrong?” Bryce waved the book merrily before stuffing it into his bag.
“Well, if you find your Captain Bolt, you send me pictures, okay?”
“On that you may rely,” Bryce said. “What is panorama mode for if not long, long photos of long, long subjects?” He ran his fingers through his hair and smoothed the front of his shirt. “You’ve been our capable guide and a true gentleman, Virgil. Your rig provided me the best ride I’ve had in a long time. And your truck is nice as well.”
Virgil laughed, and the men shook hands and took their leave. Bruce and Nestor walked across the street to the metro station where they would catch the train to the airport. From there, Bryce hoped, they would soon be winging their way across the Pacific.
Their arrival at the terminal, however, did not bode well. There were long lines at every ticket counter, and each was filled with passengers angry about the travel delays that had still not been corrected. As long as the volcano continued to belch ash into the skies, the lines would be full of desperate passengers stalking open seats. Bryce and Nestor walked the length of the building looking for their opportunity.
Bryce wasn’t seeking a shorter line, however; his searching gaze was otherwise employed. Finally he saw what he was looking for.
“Excuse me, sir, might you have a moment?”
The young man in the pilot’s uniform smiled warmly at Bryce, eyebrows up as if waiting only for the smallest request to be uttered so that he could gladly comply. “Yes?” he said, leaning down slightly as he towered a full foot over Bryce and Nestor.
“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest?” Bryce replied, batting his eyes and looking up at the pilot.
The pilot blushed and looked to the side a little sheepishly.
“How can I help you?”
“We—myself and my limber yet quite durable friend here—need to book passage to the Far East.”
The pilot’s brow furrowed slightly. “Okay. Well, what you can do is get into one of these lines, and once you get to the front, you just ask for the destination you need. They take credit cards at the counter, and they’ll give you your boarding passes.”
“I see.” Bryce turned to glance down the long lines of people. “It’s just that, you see, we’re missing something rather important.”
“What would that be?” the pilot asked, his voice full of concern.
“A destination.”
“Oh,” the pilot said, then fell silent for a moment. “I don’t… I guess I….” He stumbled to a stop again. “What?”
“To be perfectly honest, we’re heading for England
.”
“Ah,” the pilot replied but then seemed to grasp what Bryce had said. He shook his head quickly, then looked blank. “What?”
“Sometimes to get where one is going, one must go the opposite direction, don’t you agree?” The pilot looked mystified, but Bryce forged ahead. “You see, we are going to a wedding in England, but that horrid mountain keeps blowing up. We were quite at loose ends until I was struck with the inspiration: instead of flying east with the benighted masses who cannot think outside the box, we’ll simply go the other way and avoid the whole mess. We have traversed this great country of ours already by availing ourselves of the services of a friendly and quite muscular trucker, and now we appeal to you for assistance in making the next step in our journey. I can tell by your uniform that you are accustomed to command, and I assure you that we take commands quite well. I am Bryce,” he concluded after this long monologue uninterrupted by breath, “and this is my dear friend and traveling companion Nestor.” He presented his hand.
The pilot looked at the elegant hand Bryce extended toward him and shrugged as if shaking off the mist of illogic with which Bryce had filled the air. “Pleased to meet you, Bryce,” he said, his voice deep and confident, as he firmly shook Bryce’s hand. “And you as well, Nestor.”
“Man in uniform,” Nestor murmured wistfully. “So pleased.”
The pilot chuckled, then looked from Bryce to Nestor and back again as if making up his mind. “Tell you what. Come with me, and I may be able to help.”
“Oh, I knew you could help us, you lovely man.”
“Please, call me Gary.”
“I’ll call you anything you like,” Bryce growled with a comic leer. “Lead on, Gary. We are yours to command.”
Gary laughed and shook his head but turned and led the way around the side of the ticket counters to an unmarked door. He opened it by swiping the badge that hung on a lanyard around his neck and held it open for Bryce and Nestor to walk through. The hallway they entered was glaringly lit by naked fluorescent tubes on the ceiling and extended into the distance without interruption of door or decoration. They walked a long way before the corridor made an abrupt right turn, revealing another locked door. This one said General Aviation in large red letters. Gary swiped his badge again, and the door clicked open.
They stepped into a large room that seemed to be a combination office, waiting room, and cafeteria. Its occupants were a half-dozen men and women attired like Gary in vaguely military uniforms with gold bars on their epaulets. Some chugged coffee, some consulted charts on their tablets; a knot of several stood near the microwave oven listening as one of their number finished telling what was, judging from the denouement, a vigorously scatological joke. Their laughter was met with glares from some of the more studious-looking crew.
Gary led them over to the man who had delivered the raucous punch line a moment before. “Rooster, I want you to meet Bryce and Nestor. Boys, this is Rooster, the best pilot I know.”
“So pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Rooster,” Bryce said, smiling brightly.
“Well, now,” Rooster said in a drawl that still had the dust of west Texas on it, “what brings y’all to our little clubhouse?”
“They’re trying to get to England by going the long way round,” Gary explained. “I thought you might be able to help them on the next leg of their journey.”
Rooster nodded. “It just so happens I’m on my way to Tokyo this morning. Gotta deadhead over to pick up some fuckin’ Twitter-famous ‘celebrity’ who can’t leave the house without her fuckin’ Chihuahuas or whatever. Ferrying a herd of yappy little dogs and a blondie with more money than sense is not why the Air Force taught me to fly, I tell ya what.”
Gary turned to Bryce and Nestor. “Rooster flies the big boys—the private jets that are actually airliners with all the coach seats ripped out and replaced with leather and gold plate. It’s how the very rich and/or very famous get around while everyone else flies with their knees jammed under their chins.”
“Such glamour,” Bryce whispered, as if Gary had described a cathedral.
“But I can’t take passengers on a deadhead flight,” Rooster said.
“My company allows me to take service providers on deadhead trips,” Gary said. “Now, I know I’m just a puddle-jumping prop jockey, but I thought maybe your big fancy company would let you do the same.”
Rooster looked from Gary to Bryce. “What kind of services we talkin’ about here?”
It was the question Bryce’s entire life had prepared him to answer, and after years of practice he was able to answer it definitively with just a glance, a cocked eyebrow, and a hint of a smile.
“Ah, I see,” Rooster said, nodding. Then a wide grin broke across his face. “Well, boys, it just so happens that I have not had the pleasure of a lady’s company for more than a week, and this hop to Haneda starts a week on duty. I was planning to tug one out in the head before gettin’ on board—and probably twice on the way—but I like your idea better.” He grabbed at the substantial bulge in his crotch.
“I see we understand each other,” Bryce said, with a quick glance down.
“Who’s your right seat?” Gary asked.
“I got Ballard this trip.” His tone conveyed a distinct lack of enthusiasm for his traveling companion.
“Think Ballard would go for it?”
“Like I give a fuck. That fuckin’ goody-goody wouldn’t accept a blow job from supermodel nymphomaniac if she were the last woman on Earth. I swear to God that boy is the most married asshole I know.” He lowered his voice and grunted, “Loser.” Then he straightened up, and his shit-eating grin was back in place. “Let’s get you boys set up as interior maintenance crew, urgently needed on my plane to clean up the mess left when that Make-a-Wish kid puked all over it yesterday on the way back from Disney World.”
Bryce recoiled.
“I’m just shittin’ ya, come on,” Rooster said with a guffaw. “The plane’s spotless. But the guy who flew the dying kid and his family is a buddy a mine, and he’ll say the thing got barfed up if I ask him to. Lemme go get the paperwork done, and we’ll get on our way.” He lowered his voice to a growl. “You two better be thirsty, though, because once I get going I can go like hell.”
“You’ll find us more than capable,” Bryce assured him.
“Well, hot damn,” Rooster said, clapping Bryce on the shoulder. “Looks like my lucky day.” He ambled off toward the vending machines, dialing his phone. “Yeah, it’s Rooster. I need a favor….”
“We cannot thank you enough for your help, Gary,” Bryce said, putting his hand on Gary’s arm.
Gary gave a wry smile. “One thing you should know before you thank me. The reason everyone calls him Rooster isn’t because he’s a morning person, or because he struts around looking arrogant. Both of those things are true, but the nickname comes from his most prominent feature, the thing that made him famous during academy.”
“I shall be heartbroken if you are referring to his nose,” Bryce said.
“I am not. It also explains why he’s so eager to get you on his plane. According to him—and he spends a lot of time talking about it—only one woman has ever been able to take the whole thing. And she was a center for a WNBA team who only tried it because she didn’t want to marry her girlfriend without giving it a shot with a guy. She picked him because he was the pilot of the team plane, and she figured if she was going to screw only one man in her life, she would choose the biggest of his kind. Rooster loved it. She, however, just got confirmation that she’d been right all along and left him a note in the morning saying so. Along with a hundred-dollar bill.”
“Oh dear,” Bryce tutted.
“No, that actually made it better for him. For a while there, all he could talk about was being ‘Rooster for Hire,’ like some action-hero gigolo. We were all happy when that blew over. Anyway, since the WNBA is not exactly a dating pool swimming with eager heterosexuals, Rooster sometimes goes back to what
got him through the academy—dudes. He insists he’s straight and only resorts to guys because women can’t handle him.” Gary rolled his eyes. “Whatever. It worked out for you guys, right?”
“He’s exactly what we’ve been looking for,” Bryce replied.
“Well, good for you. Look, I gotta get ready. I’m taking oil executives on a sightseeing trip over their rigs out in the middle of nowhere—cactus country—so I need to preflight soon. You two wait here, and Rooster should be back in a couple to get you set up as contractors.”
“Thank you so much, Gary,” Bryce said again. “And if there’s anything we can do to show our appreciation….”
Gary smiled. “’Fraid not, boys. Rooster joked about Ballard being the most married asshole he knows, but I’m just as married. And the one I’m married to expects this asshole to be dedicated to his private enjoyment only.”
“As you wish,” Bryce said with a gracious nod. “But if you and your husband ever desire company….”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Gary replied with a smile. “I appreciate the subtlety with which you slipped your phone number into my pocket. Smooth.”
Bryce touched his hand to his throat as if embarrassed to have been complimented. “Slipping into your front pocket was its own reward, dear.”
Gary shook their hands and took his leave just as Rooster returned from his negotiations on the phone.
“All right, men,” Rooster called out in a deep, resonant voice. “Let’s move out. You have an awful mess to clean up on that plane, and it’s going to keep you busy all the way to Tokyo.”
“But you say was no barfing—” Nestor objected, but Bryce nudged him in the ribs. “Oh, si.” Nestor cleared his throat before speaking up loudly. “We ready to be cleaning the plane now.”