Jump Start

by Karen Botha

  “Leave them.” He flashes me a grin as his clothes bunch by his feet.

  “Fine by me,” I mutter as my attention is drawn to his rock hard cock pointing skywards and begging for my attention.

  Kyle braces as my hand locks around his length. His pulsing sends a tingle of appreciation into my own naked torso, warming and strengthening my own cock again.

  “How can you manage that?” Kyle growls noticing my eagerness.

  I grin. “You just do it for me, what can I say?”

  Wrapping my digits tighter, I pull them from the base of his cock upwards, slowly. His eyes close and a sigh escapes his gorgeous mouth as I release my three lower fingers and run the slim clamp of my thumb and first fingers under the ridge of his bulging head. Taking my time to tease him, I repeat the action speeding up, then slowing back down, varying the tempo so he has no clue what to expect.

  He bucks against me, shoving my grip lower, moving against me, into me. I close my fist again, allow him the moment of relief as the teasing satiates before letting go with my hand altogether. Leaving him begging. “Oh no, Elliott. Hold me.”

  I straddle him, plant both my hands either side of his head and sink down so my entire body is pressed against his. “You want me to hold you?” I whisper in his ear, my teeth nibbling the lobe.

  “Not like that,” He replies as I suck it into my mouth. He presses his hips up again, chafing against my belly. “Ooh.” He moans at the pressure once again surrounding him.

  I lift, shift my weight so I can chase my wet lips over his collar bone and down. I kiss the pathway leading to my treasure and feel his stomach tense under my touch. A thrill flutters down my spine, whisking away my breath.

  And then I’m face to face with his manhood. The banging and crashing from the next room continues to float into my subconscious, but the room may as well be silent for all the effect it has. I’m vaguely aware that there are others in the house, but the thrill of being caught is long past, replaced by the thrill of being with the man I love.

  Kyle

  Elliott is just taking me in his mouth when the drilling stops and the shouting starts. We continue, undeterred for a few moments, but there’s an uneasy sense that something isn’t right. Both our minds are distracted so we end up going through the motions without really being able to focus.

  The floor is vibrating in a way it hadn’t before. The yelling which had started stops with a sudden hush which is plain wrong.

  Even in the other room, time slows. Our eyes lock and in that instant we both know what is about to happen. We rush to dress, to dash into the hallway in the vain hope we can prevent the inevitable, but it’s already happened when we arrive.

  The corridor is filled with a cloud of dust. As we pick our way through the disaster, the floor is barely visible.

  Elliott rushes in front. I grab his flexed bicep. “Stop. Let me go first.”

  I don’t let him reply, pulling him backwards and holding him behind me, ensuring he has no choice but to allow me to take a tentative steps forward. I feel the floor with the sole of my foot, scanning it before allowing it to support my weight. The process of reaching the rubble on the soiled carpet by the entrance to our bedroom seems to take an eternity. In fact, it’s probably only a few seconds longer than if we had rushed forward.

  But when we do get to the site, the scene we’re met with is worse than either of us could have imagined.

  The wall between the bathroom and the bed is now on the ground floor, having taken the floor and all the furniture with it. It’s at this point that I notice a commotion. The workers are shouting, but it’s like someone has pressed the mute button and their cries are dimmed. One builder hangs over the edge of the hole, another dangles from his grasp. The remaining guys are forming a chain, rescuing their co-worker from the precarious perimeter of the unsafe support with what disregard for the risks they are now taking to themselves.

  “Let him go,” I scream as I push forward, the dust cloud now clearing.

  “We can’t,” one hollers back.

  “You must. The rim of the hole is weak. You could all fall through with the additional pressure.” I lie myself flat on the floor and hang over, assessing the situation.

  The guy is about five meters from the ground. He’ll be fine if he falls on his feet. The problem is, there’s a pile of rubble below him which means he won’t land evenly.

  “Let him go,” I repeat.

  Elliott lies down next to me. “Shit, the high ceilings are great until you fall through them.” He mutters this and thankfully no one other than me hears him. To the guy hanging, he shouts, “Swing your legs so you land over there.” He points, indicating a clear space ahead of him.

  The scream that emanates from the guy’s mouth is more akin to a girl than a burly builder and I have to resist the urge to show my frustration. Elliott is right. All he has to do is give himself some leverage and he’ll avoid breaking his leg. He just needs to do it. If the ceiling caves in, the damage will be way worse with at least five people, including Elliott and myself, landing on our heads slap bang in the middle of that pile of stones.

  I find my voice and bellow at him, “Just do it, otherwise everyone else will fall. Swing your legs and jump.”

  To my relief, he does and avoids the impending broken bone by vaulting in the clear.

  Kyle

  Panic over, we bound down the stairs to assess the damage from the lower angle.

  “This is going to be a bloody nightmare.” Elliott moans as he clatters down two steps at a time. “I’ll have to call Jessie and Clifford. Bet that builder will have an eye on compensation.

  “Not from you. It’s not your fault workmen caved in your ceiling,” I mutter back as we hit the ground floor.

  Rushing into the lounge we’re greeted with the full effect of the devastation.

  Stray shards of crushed plasterboard litter the living room, on top of which sits our smashed French style bed, and our two bedside cabinets which spill open, dispersing a tube of lube right on the top of the rubble for everyone to see. My eyes rise up to where the ceiling should be.

  I stand in a daze, taking in the gaping hole almost the size of the fifteen by twenty room, observing the remains of our new master suite from an angle unlike any other. The pale grey of the bedroom walls shimmers, a backdrop to the dust which catches the light.

  My eyes follow it as it drifts down and to the sofa which I hadn’t noticed until now. It's also supporting a selection of ceiling remnants and shattered furniture as well as the discarded wall. My eyes drift across the ruin and land on the woman who was helping Elliott when I arrived.

  “Fuck.” Elliott sees her at the same time and lurches forward, grappling with bricks, trying to free her from the rubble. “Call an ambulance,” he shouts, but I already have my phone out and am dialing.

  The rest of the builders join us, clambering over the debris and pawing at bricks, shouting instructions to anyone and no one.

  The woman isn’t moving and I can’t work out whether she’s gray from shock, from the stone dust, or far worse.

  Elliott is speaking to her, asking if she’s alright. He has his face next to her mouth checking for breath, “Come on, speak to me.”

  Nothing.

  She doesn’t move.

  Doesn’t respond.

  “I’m going to have to open the gates, Elliott. I’ll go down and meet the ambulance,” I say.

  He nods, just as the woman groans.

  “What happened?” She tries to lift her hand to her temple, but it’s still buried so she only succeeds in raising her shoulder.

  “There was an accident. Do you know where you are?” Elliott asks.

  “Sure,” she nods.

  “Try not to move your head,” he says, brushing his hand over her brown hair. Some dust transfers from her onto his palm. He strokes her hair from her eyes.

  “I was sitting on the sofa, going through some boxes that I found in the kitchen.” Her voice is weak
, but at least she’s speaking and making sense. Remembering.

  Amidst all the terror, I experience the weirdest moment of clarity. I realize she'd been sorting through my Grandma’s china. I look for the box, and despite all the unimaginable horror of the last few minutes, I still manage to feel a sinking in the pit of my stomach that the one thing that remained of my dad's side of the family is irreversibly pulverized.

  I turn and run from the room, and down the long gravel drive. As I wait for the ambulance, I pull my phone from my pocket and make another call.

  “Clifford, it’s Kyle. There’s been an accident.”

  Kyle

  I’ve never witnessed Elliott fly into action with quite such force and it was hot. He’s been all over the news and because this is unconnected to our work, once again hits me that I’m sharing my life with a superstar. I’d gotten used to us not being able to go anywhere without being recognized and to the close protection who keep their respectful distance. But, I’ve not yet seen him splattered across the papers for no other reason than intentional positive PR.

  I’m watching the breakfast news while I eat my porridge. He scrubs up well. Really fucking well. I remind myself that I sleep with that man every night. As he talks, he brushes a blond curl from his face and the camera catches the flex of the muscles in his forearm.

  I can’t help myself. My work pants grow a little tighter below where my cereal rests. Elliott continues to talk about the virtues of selecting respectable builders. I’ve heard it a million times before over the last few weeks, so rather than listening to the points he’s making, I place my bowl on the floor and use my palm to add relief to my crotch.

  The pressure does nothing to ease my desire; he talks so fluently as the lights of the studio catch the striking blue of his eyes. The passion I experience with him in the bedroom transcends to his arguments about building confederations.

  “It’s not that these organizations don’t exist,” a tinny version of his voice stresses.

  I tune it out, continue to watch the way he moves, the curve of his mouth as he smiles at the interviewer, the white of his perfect teeth.

  This is no good. I drag my zipper down and un-peel my cock from its pressured housing. An instant relief washes over me, but it’s not sufficiently gratifying.

  Elliott continues to talk, “It’s just that people aren’t aware of how they can use them to make sure their work is of a safe standard.”

  With the best will in the world, it’s not the most interesting of interviews, and yet he still drives me insane. I wrap my fingers around my length and focus my attention on his mouth. I gasp as I imagine that mouth encasing where my digits are sliding up and down. My mind transports me to the warmth in which my cock is encased. His lips continue to work on the TV, but by now I have no clue what he’s really saying. Instead, I hear him tell me how much he wants me.

  I envision his reaction when I tell him later that he had me jacking off to him, that I wanted him in this moment as I sit on our sofa watching him speak about the importance of confederations. The strength in his arm as he drapes it over the edge of the sofa is clear, the tone of his forearm flexes under the lights as he gesticulates at the interviewer sending shivers of delight down my spine as I remember what those arms are capable of. I will be telling him how his effect on me transported over the airwaves to connect us despite being miles apart and I will love watching how my words then turn him molten.

  My vision floats, a haziness blurring his form on the screen. I snap my head, refocus on him, and watch every detail of how he moves. He’s smiling, but it’s not the smoky smile I enjoy, nor is it his practiced TV interview smile. He’s being humble, allowing the public to take a glimpse of the person I share my life with. He speaks and then he glances away, eyes focused on the floor as a memory floats through his consciousness. It’s endearing and the lust I’ve been feeling spins out of control as I pile on top a healthy layer of adoration.

  The speed of my hand is uncontrollable as the insatiable craving I have for this man once again takes hold. My crotch burns with friction and the intensity of my passions as my balls shrink and “Ugh, ohhh... ohhh.”

  I holler at the top of my lungs as I combust just as Elliott announces to the world, “Yes, we are now living together.”

  Elliott

  I’m exhausted. This is supposed to be my downtime when I replenish my sapped stamina, but running around doing all this campaigning is even more draining. I’m just thankful I’m in the privileged position to be able to raise awareness of a cause so close to my heart and for now don’t consider the effect it could have on my performance next season. Lobbying is way more important than how fast I can drive around a track. At this point, I don’t acknowledge the similarities between my job and the construction project I’m working on. Safety is as important as speed in both our roles, and that to be safe, I need to be switched on, which requires an enormous reserve of energy upon which to draw.

  Kyle has already drifted upstairs to the back bedroom by the time I get home. I’m exhausted and turn off the lamp he’s left on for me. Even those small gestures show me his love and the light burns in my heart long after being extinguished.

  I creep up the staircase to the next level, feeling my route against the wall so I don’t bang and make a noise. And then it happens. His effect on me is instant. As soon as I walk into the room, my mind which had been wild, calms. I hover in the door way and watch my beautiful man sleep. His dark eyelashes stand out against the pale skin of his cheek, and his relaxed features are enough to melt away my fears of ceilings crashing down on top of unsuspecting helpers. The lines which usually crease the side of his eyes and forehead during the day have drifted away with his consciousness, and he looks young.

  He must have been sleeping for a while he’s already snuffling. My only thought is to wiggle up into him and sink into the peace of being close.

  I undress, holding my belt so it doesn’t rattle as I fold my jeans and lay them in a corner rather than hanging them. Sliding in next to him, I pull the cover up and turn on my side, inching up until my cold skin nestles against his hot flesh. The scent of his warmth filters into my consciousness and my heart floods with love. Without realizing what I’m doing, I’ve draped my left arm over him as he lies facing away from me, and the strength of that admiration has me dragging him toward me with a sharp tug. I place my lips against his spine and close my eyes.

  “Hi.” His voice is thick with drowsiness.

  “Hi.” I kiss him again, not wanting anything more than this. Content with togetherness.

  He rolls over until we’re side on facing each other. He crushes my lower arm into the mattress before I snatch it out from under him. “I missed you today.” He kisses my lips. It’s a slow, lingering caress. Mine part, anticipating his next move, but he pulls away, strokes my face.

  “I missed you too. I don’t like you working. It keeps us apart.”

  “Not necessarily. I watched you on the TV this morning.”

  “Oh, you did? I hoped you would. You were all I could think about throughout the interview. I wanted you to be impressed.”

  “Well, you did brilliantly. Do you want to know what I did?”

  Kyle

  His hardness grows against mine. A passion which has been lying dormant for the last few days while all the mania plays out surges and I know he feels it too. There’s a moment when our solid cocks connect and we catch our breaths, sucking in the air from the other’s mouth.

  Pulling his hips into me until we’re rubbing up against each other, the acceleration of my heart rate shoving sleep aside in favor of what I really want. I see the simmering intensity of his gaze through the light from the dimmed bedside lamp. His lips full with desire, his cool blue eyes now ice hot, burning desire into my soul.

  His hand caresses between my firm butt cheeks as I jab against him in a movement my body has never learned, but still instinctively knows how to respond. Scorching icicles of flaming pleasure f
lash around my frame, seizing hold of conscious gestures, replacing them with intense abandon. I kiss his neck, inhale him, run my tongue up the sensitive underside of his ear.

  “Oh, Kyle, I’m so pleased you’re here to enjoy this with me. It could have been you through that hole.”

  And then it clicks. The reason for his drive to improve the country’s awareness of building regulations isn’t because he’s pissed that his beautiful stately house is a wreck, nor that the placid lady who was helping him clear his junk wound up in the hospital for a few days as a result, but because it could have been me under that pile of rubble.

  A selfish surge of appreciation takes hold and I grab him, jamming against him until we both exhale all the air we’d been holding in our lungs.

  I shove him onto his back, his arms splay up over his head and catch onto the headboard as he opens his legs for me to shimmy down and sit between them, but I don’t. Instead, I shift my butt up toward his face and bend over so he can see everything.

  Spreading my legs, I straddle his head and suck him down my throat as he works my cock with a firm slide of his wrist. A wave builds, threatening devastation, but I refuse to cut this short. I switch off from it and concentrate on devouring the man that I love. On giving him as much pleasure as he deserves.

  But he’s slicked his hand the cold of the gel shocks then excites as his action speeds. He sucks my heavy balls into his mouth as he works me crashing a brilliant light through my brain. Thoughts of what I want to do to this man clatter around, smashing against my skull as we rock in a united rhythm.

  I pull my mouth up to his throbbing tip, pull back his foreskin, and tease him with the edge of my tongue, begging for some respite, hoping he’ll follow my slower pace.