The Aviators

Pete had been prescient in his thought that he and Alex were to be the entertainment at the Taylors’ garden party. The American aviators were there for the opening and still there for the closing. And it was obvious that they were there to be the young hunk guests. There wasn’t much of any virile man flesh to attend to social events in England at the time, most of the young men being in service and “over there”--or having been over there and not coming back. The latter circumstance increased the value of virile young men such as the American aviators.

The two were already there, on display in tennis togs and swinging their rackets, moving gracefully about the court at the side of the country home, next to the pathway guests entered into the back gardens, as the other guests started to arrive. They were playing a foursome with the Taylors. Pete partnered with the tall, willowy, auburn-haired novelist Angela, and Alex with the short, but solid and handsome Jewish actor, Curt. All four were more than adequate at tennis and expert at posing as the guests streamed past them and into the garden, which fell in tiered terraces to a meadow below, with a pond and folly in the distance. The scale of the folly made the pond seem to be a lake, which no doubt was the purpose of having a folly.

The upper terrace was flagstoned and set up with wicker furniture in a semicircle facing the vista around a dance floor. A gramophone was squeaking away at the standards of the day. Billie Holiday was singing “Embraceable You” as the tennis match was winding down and the stream of arriving guests was thickening. The grass-carpeted terrace in the next tier below supported a long buffet table set up for grazing, and the lowest grass-carpeted terrace featured the drinks tables. It was this terrace and the meadow below where most of the guests, a motley collection of academics from nearby Cambridge, an assortment of over-the-hill film people, aging dowagers with titles and plumed hats, and the somewhat squalid literati were accumulating.

The weather was atypically idyllic, which, of course, all the guests credited to Curt’s Hollywood connections.

“Thanks for the game,” Curt said as the four gathered at the bench by the fence gate. “You brought your uniforms, I hope. We know you did a run today; everyone here will want to hear about that.”

More proof that they were here to provide the entertainment.

“Yes, our uniforms are in the car,” Pete answered. It wasn’t lost to any of the four that he was standing in a close tableau with Curt and Angela and was palming their butts. The two had made quite clear to Pete and Alex with signaling with their eyes and chatting innuendo when the two aviators had been the first to arrive that this was to be a free-sex-expected evening. And, as the guests gathered and it became obvious that the two aviators were the only hunky males present, it was obvious who was to be free with the sex.

“Well, bring them upstairs and we’ll change,” Curt said. “Angela will take her room and we can take mine.” Angela gave Curt a pointed look of pique, but the day was young and she was assured of her innings.

Once up in the luxurious surroundings of the mansion’s bedroom area, it became clear to Pete and Alex that they would be taking their time changing. Curt quickly stripped out of his tennis togs and went to the shower first, as Pete and Alex stripped down. When he came out, he went to a window and posed, naked by the drapes. He was in half erection, and he seemed already to have made out how to make maximum advantage of the shadowing of light filtering through the window to enhance his stance. He had kept his body in good condition, as the demands of his film career dictated. He didn’t seem embarrassed at all about exposing himself to the aviators.

While he had been showering, Pete and Alex, both naked, had sat beside each other on the foot of the enormous bed and were kissing and fondling each other. They didn’t break when Curt came out of the bathroom and he didn’t seem to mind in the least. Indeed, it was clear that he expected it and that he also expected the couplings to unfold quickly. They had a party to go to. Pete stood, full frontal to him, magnificent in dark-haired, hirsute body and in full erection.

“Care to join me in a cigarette, old fellow, while your blond friend showers?” Curt said to Pete, his eyes taking in all there was to see. “The fags are over there on the dresser top.”

Pete walked over to the dresser and retrieved the packet of cigarettes. “Chesterfields,” he said, as if it was some sort of foreign commodity.

“They won’t do? I have them smuggled in from the States.”

“I’ll bring you a carton of Lucky Strikes next time,” Pete said. He crossed to the window. The two men stood there, in the light streaming in through the window, facing each other, leaning against opposite sides of the window well, smoking, and smiling. As Alex stood up from the bed to go take his shower, Curt had reached out with a hand, had jutted his pelvis forward, and was coaxing Pete’s pelvis forward with a palm on the aviator’s buttocks. Pete complied without more comment than a smile. Without hesitation or embarrassment, Curt encased his and Pete’s cocks in a fist, bundling the two hard shafts together. Pete’s eyes held Curt’s in an unwavering look. It was clear that an understanding was being negotiated. What was in balance was which one of the men was going to be dominant. Alex didn’t figure into the negotiation; he was recognized as a submissive. Despite Curt making the moves, Alex’s money was on Pete to win this one.

When Alex returned from the bathroom, Pete was setting on the foot of the bed, thighs spread, and Curt was kneeling between Pete’s legs and giving him a deep-throated, slow blow job. Pete waved Alex over to sit beside him, and when Alex sat, Pete pulled his face in for a kiss and Curt fisted Alex’s cock and stroked it while he was sucking on Pete’s cock.

Pete pulled Curt up from the floor, and the party host settled on Pete’s shaft, crouching in the aviator’s lap, facing him, and began to rise and fall on Pete’s cock, using the leverage of his feet flat on the mattress on either side of Pete’s hips. Both men had lost interest in Alex, who rose from the bed, pulled on his spiffy American flyer uniform, and went out into the bedroom hallway. He found his way through the maze of the corridors in the mansion to the garden, drawn by the strains of Bing Crosby’s “I’ll Be Seeing You,” playing on the gramophone on the upper terrace.

Angela Taylor, sexy and chic in a backless and nearly frontless silver lamé tight gown that flowed down her slim body, was standing at the terrace, holding two drinks in her hand, as Alex arrived. She handed one of the drinks to him as if she’d been waiting there to bestow it on whoever arrived first. It was as if she knew they wouldn’t all come down together--and, from her lack of surprise at seeing Alex, she appeared to know, as well, that it would be her husband and the dark, mysterious aviator who had held back.

“First out?” she asked, with a twinkle in her eye.

“Seems so. I became a third wheel on a bicycle,” Alex answered, without rancor. The evening was young.

“Ah. We can both take heart that there’s more cycling to be done. Who is in? Curt or your luscious friend, Peter?”

“In?”

“Who is dominating? Who has established rights of penetration?”

“Pete, when I left.”

“Ah, lucky Curt,” she said. “Come, you must meet our assorted guests. It’s time for you to recite today’s war story. Use literary license. Buck them up and all that. Sorry, this is more or less a payback event, so there’s a dab of everyone here--both the dull and the intolerable. Some are dripping in titles, but as you are as American as I am, I’m sure that will just run off your back without leaving you speechless in the company of majesty. Your body--and that of your friend, Peter--is as majestic as I can take. I love the uniform. Very manly, very virile. I can hardly wait to get you out of it. You should know, though, that I can’t handle more than thirteen inches.” Her laugh tinkled. Her look of amusement was as much in the enjoyment of seeing Alex blush as anything else.

“The others here will love it too--the uniform, not the thirteen inches,” she continued. “They don’t often get to see young, virile, and vigorous men with all their limbs intact out and about these days.” At this last comment, she’d faced him, came in close, and was feeling him up between the legs. “You are virile and vigorous, I trust. Yes, I can feel that you have all of your limbs intact. Thirteen inches wasn’t that preposterous of a wish.” He didn’t flinch. He just took a deep drink from his glass and gave her a steely look. he winced, though, when she squeezed his balls through the thin material of his summer trousers.

She laughed and turned away, putting her arm through his. “Come, let’s get this small talk with the guests over with before getting down to the business of pleasure.”

Putting on her hostess smile, she pulled him down the terrace levels, introducing him to playwright this and countess that, as they descended to the drinks tables. Curt and Pete joined them there, Curt giving Angela a look of flushed satisfaction and Angela returning a cool look and a proffered martini. As she turned from the drinks table so did a young man--very young, maybe barely twenty, who was out of place in that he was young and apparently had all of his limbs and therefore raised the question of what he was doing here. What he was doing here was looking almost too beautiful in a pouty, full-lipped face strawberry blond package to be a man.

“Ah, Vis,” Angela said, trapping the young man before he could get away and introducing him to her aviator centerpieces. “Peter, Alex, this is Viscount Cinterton. Peter and Alex are American daredevils of the air and the scourge of Hitler over at the Duxford Aerodrome.”

“You can call me Nigel,” the young man said, flashing a dazzling smile at Alex and then an even more dazzling one at Pete.

“We call him Vis for short,” Curt offered.

“Out of uniform for the night?” Pete asked, and the young nobleman looked a bit embarrassed.

“Vis is in the theatre,” Curt interjected.

“The theatre?” Pete asked, not following.

“Yes. Ballet to be more precise,” Angela said. “He’s a dancer, aren’t you, dear boy?” She laid a protective hand on the young man’s arm. “Can’t you tell from his perfect dancer’s body?”

“Inadequate eyesight, I’m afraid,” Nigel provided an answer to the question Pete had asked, responding with downcast face and fluttering eyelashes.

“And they don’t take notorious homosexuals, especially royals who can’t be used as frontline fodder,” Curt said under his breath as Angela captured the young man’s attention for a bit of chit chat about his father, the Earl of Lockthorn. Curt had said it loud enough for both Pete and Alex to hear and followed up. “I imagine he’s been fucked by every baron and lord between here and London.”

“Time to play hostess,” Angela said, brightly. “I assume you men can play by yourselves until you’re needed again,” she added. Both she and Curt wafted off to greet and stroke other guests, leaving the three men facing each other rather awkwardly. The strains of “Till Then,” sung by the Mills Brothers wafted down from upper terrace.

“I say, when I was coming out of the house I spied a nifty burgundy and gray Jaguar with a crest on the door down in the car park. That wasn’t, by any chance, yours, was it . . . Nigel?” Pete asked, breaking the silence.

“Why yes it was. Would you like to inspect it?”

“Most assuredly yes,” Pete answered. “I see some smashing food on the buffet table, Alex. You should graze there while the viscount here is showing me his machine.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Alex said somewhat stiffly. He watched the men drift off, Pete’s arm around the diminutive young man’s shoulder, while Alex fought hard to discard jealously. Pete wasn’t his property. At least he kept telling himself that.

Alex’s imagination ran ahead of the tableau in the car park, which found Pete pressing Nigel against the fender of his Jaguar salon car in a close embrace and which included Pete’s tongue inside Nigel’s mouth and his hand on Nigel’s crotch as the dancer bent his leg and rubbed his thigh against Pete’s. The tableau was exploded, though, by the headlights of a late-arriving car, Pete’s muttered “Later,” and Nigel’s shudder of submission to whenever Pete wanted to pick up where he’d left off.

Later, to the strains of Les Brown’s band on “Twilight Time,” the five of them--the Taylors, Pete, Alex, and Nigel--were sitting in the dimming light in wicker chairs on the upper terrace, the last of the revelers. Twilight came late to England at this time of year.

“Vis has seen the folly, but I’m sure Peter and Alex would like to see it,” Angela said, casting a “don’t question that you want to see it” look around the group. “It’s getting late, Vis. Do you have to go all the way back to London tonight?”

“I have a flat in Cambridge I can go to,” Nigel answered. “But go ahead and show the men the folly. I can wait.”

“You can wait? It may take some time,” Angela said.

“The viscount has kindly agreed to drive me back to the airfield. I want to hear the Jaguar purr,” Pete offered. “Alex can have the car to return to Duxford.” He turned a benevolent smile to Alex, who fought hard to return a wan version of it.

“And I can wait,” Nigel insisted. “Take your time.”

There were two Roman-style marble couches set in the folly, at an angle to each other, the rolled up heads of the couches set close together. The aviators, naked, lay on the couches, Alex on his belly on one couch and Pete on his back on the other. Curt was saddled on Alex’s slightly raised hips, the host’s hands clutching Alex’s waist, and Curt’s cock plowing Alex’s channel in deep, slow strokes. Angela, slinky dress bunched up around her waist, was atop and facing Pete on the other couch, her hands palming his pecs, her torso thrown back, riding his cock hard, an expression of ecstasy on her face. Pete’s face was plastered to Alex’s. The two men were running their hands through the hair of the other and were kissing passionately.

As promised, Nigel was still sitting on the terrace, listening to Dooley Wilson’s “As Time Goes By” when the four sauntered back up from the folly, Angela dangling her slippers from a hand. Both Angela and Curt walked right on by him and into the mansion. Pete and Alex stopped and stood in front of where Nigel was sitting.

“So, now . . .” Pete said, holding out his hand for the viscount to take with his to help him stand, “Perhaps a circuitous route back to the airfield.”

“I have a small flat in Cambridge,” Nigel said. “It’s not far.”

Alex tried to smile, but he suddenly felt the loss. There wasn’t even any pretense that the young piece was taking Pete straight back to the airmen’s barracks. The impression he got of the sparks flying between Pete and Nigel was that Nigel was assuring Pete that they didn’t have to pull off into the bushes at the end of the drive and fuck in the backseat of the Jaguar.

When they were gone, Alex sat in the wicker chair that Nigel had vacated, smoked two cigarettes, watched the night descend over the pond, and listened to the gramophone play “As Time Goes By” over and over again. He worked hard to put Pete out of his mind, and did so by thinking of another man who had been in the garden that day, although by no means one of the hosts or the guests.

A gardener had taken breaks from clipping a hedge by the tennis court fence to watch the play. He was a short man, but solid and powerful looking--muscular. He wasn’t young. He had looked grizzled, rough, and primitive. For these reasons alone, though, Alex had found him arousing. In the lower-class world Alex had come from he’d been initiated by a man as grizzled, rough, and primitive as this.

The gardener’s face was ruggedly handsome under his peasant’s hat, his body looking powerful within his loose garden clothing. And he was watching the tennis with interest--the bodies moving on the court more than the play of the ball. His eyes had followed Alex. At the time, Alex had assumed he was watching the tennis play and just liked Alex’s style of play. Just now, though, while they and the Taylors had been fucking in the folly, he was there again, standing in the shadows, outside the doorway into the folly. Watching. So, it hadn’t been the tennis form he’d been watching.

So that he didn’t have to think of Pete on top of the diminutive Nigel, Alex thought of himself writhing under the body of the crude gardener as he had writhed under the body of the neighbor he had done gardening for in Georgia. No more acting like a prince, but reverting to the pauper he himself was underneath it all. Taking a cock--a huge cock as he somehow knew the gardener would have from the assurance with which the man carried himself--and being taken cruelly, totally, the brute only thinking of his own pleasure and satisfaction--but, in that, heightening the pleasure and satisfaction that Alex took from the encounter.

Flicking the spent cigarette out onto the stones, he rose and walked, deliberately, into the house.

It was as if Angela expected him to push open the door to her bedroom, bang it shut, and stride to her. She had been at her table, brushing her hair. She was wearing a diaphanous robe, open and flowing down from each side of her, and nothing else. Her breasts pushed up and out, the nipples taut, of the open robe and also could be seen in the reflection in the mirror. Alex stood close behind her and kneaded her breasts with his hands as she turned her face up to his for a deep kiss. He ran one hand down and over her pulsing belly, down lower, two fingers sliding between her folds, with one curling inside her and the other continuing on to her clit. She shuddered and moaned for him.

She laughed as he laid her on her back at the foot of the bed, and she opened her legs to him and barely winced as he thrust inside her strongly and began to pump. She arched her back, dragged her sharp nails across his bare back and cried out, “Yes. Harder. Deeper. You’re a stud,” as he furiously fucked her. Deeper and deeper, faster and harder he fucked her--letting it all out, all the tension and resentment he had inside him. All it was to these people--and to Pete--was sexual release. He was just a cock and a bung hole to them all. To them, this was all just a game of fear of the unknown, a frenzied response to the horrors of war and the threat of a force named Hitler.

The more frenzied and more cruel and brutal he got--thick, long cock pumping her hard, punishing her channel walls, making her flop around like a rag doll, conquered, dominated, mastered, the more she cried out for him to do just that--conquer, dominate, master--her. She dug her fingernails into his shoulder blades and bucked against him, laughing and crying at the same time, screeching, “Yes. Oh, god yes! Pound me!”

Curt must have expected this visitation too, as only moments went by after they moved into uncontrollable frenzy before he was saddling up behind Alex, working his way into the blond aviator’s ass with his cock, and taking over control of him fucking Alex and Alex fucking Angela. Collapsing on top of Angela with a deep groan, Alex went spongy and soft inside, feeling Curt reach deeper up inside him--thickening and hardening inside him--as Alex went completely submissive, conquered, dominated, and mastered by the actor’s pounding shaft. “Oh shit, yes. Punish me. Pound me!” he cried out as Angela held steady now, gripping his shoulders in a death grip, sending her channel walls to clutch at and shimmer over his throbbing cock just as Alex was making his channel walls undulate over and make love to Curt’s demanding shaft, and took his seed--spurting once, twice, thrice, subsiding only as Curt’s explosion commenced.

* * * *

Pete came out of the washroom, a towel around his waist. The bedroom of Nigel’s flat--more a pied-à-terre than a residential flat--was small. There was nothing in it but a single bed, a bureau, a nightstand, and an overstuffed chair. What was there was very good quality, however. This, after all, was a viscount’s bedroom in his university town retreat flat. The furniture, oversized for the rooms, probably came from a palatial manor house. The washroom itself had been small, barely accommodating Pete’s hulking body and set under the eaves so that a man Pete’s height couldn’t stand up straight to shower or pee. Nigel was much smaller than he was--delicate, almost effeminate, with the grace of a ballet dancer--so no doubt all of the space looked bigger to him and fit his body more easily.

There were two lamps on the bureau, both with red shades that cast a rosy glow across the room. The color of heat, hot sex. Pete was hard in anticipation. He was looking forward to fucking the shit out of this hot little piece who had avoided going to war. Nigel was a strawberry blond--all the way to the bush, as Pete had found while he was kissing the dancer in a standing clutch of exposing and revealing before he’d broken and growled that he wanted to take a shower to clean the effects of the earlier sex from his body before he started again. Nigel’s strawberry-red bush, closely trimmed in tight curls, turned Pete on. He was keeping a separate count of the redheads he’d spiked--more women than men, so Nigel essentially was a bonus for him.

Nigel already was naked, stretched out on his belly on the white sheets of the bed, the red chenille bedspread puddled down to the floor at the lower three sides of the bed, when Pete emerged from the washroom. He was trembling slightly. His head had been turned to the wall when Pete appeared, but now he turned his face toward the other man. Pete dropped the towel to the Oriental carpet. Nigel’s eyes went large and his moan was audible.

“God, you’re big,” he murmured, the sound coming out in a whimper.

“I think it’s because your flat is small,” Pete said, with a smile.

“No, it’s because you’re huge.”

“And getting bigger,” Pete said, wagging his cock at the young man and giving it a couple of stretching and thickening strokes.

“And you’re hairy; your chest is pelted with curly, black hair. I’d seen it on your forearms before--”

“Does that put you off? Do you want me to wear a shirt when I fuck you? Do you want to shave my body before we do it?”

The “when I fuck you” might have gone a bit too far at this point, Pete was afraid. Nigel seemed to withdraw into himself, but what he said showed that it had been more his arousal at what Pete said than what Pete had said that had affected him. “No, I have fantasies about hairy men. And are all Americans that big?” What was that in his voice? Was his banter covering something? Fear, reluctance? Less experience with men than had been rumored?

“Yes, we’re all monsters. We split our men asunder and leave them unable to feel Englishmen inside them ever again. It’s a service we do. It’s our present to the young men of England.”

“I don’t know if I can . . .” Nigel moaned again. “Please, be good to me.” Nigel turned his face to the wall again. He was trembling more, and Pete could hear him panting. Pete almost laughed when Nigel raised up on his knees, lifting his tail in a sign of a dreaded “just do it.”

Pete’s need to dominate and punish drained out of him. This one was young, and not nearly as hardened and experienced as he’d thought he would be. Curt Taylor had exaggerated both his experience and wantonness. But Pete was here and had his needs. He also sensed that it was something Nigel wanted. He’d have to readjust his usual “take ’em fast and hard” technique, though.

He went to the bed and sat down beside Nigel’s thighs. He laid the palm of his left hand on Nigel’s plump left butt cheek and felt the young man tense up. But Pete did so just to let Nigel know he could go flat, that this wasn’t going to be a hard and fast taking. They would get there, but Pete would prepare him for it. The size of him and his reaction to seeing Pete naked told the aviator that Nigel probably couldn’t take him without extensive preparation. But Pete was determined that the young man would be open for him. He wasn’t in the mood just to walk away and call it an unfulfilled night. Nigel was too much of a luscious piece for Pete to deny himself. But he had to move carefully here. Who knows what trouble one of these royals could raise if he was taken by force and didn’t like it? This one certainly was sending mixed signals.

The fingers of his other hand went into the red curls of the young man’s head, and Pete played there for a while, waiting for Nigel’s tension to lessen, which it did. He let the hand come down to the back of the young man’s neck and he massaged that and Nigel’s shoulders. Nigel turned his face back and gave a sigh.

“That feels good,” he murmured.

“I’m going to make you feel a whole lot better,” Pete answered. He felt the young man tense up again slightly. He was skittish. Pete wondered just how many times Nigel had done it before--and how expert, big, and virile were the ones he’d done it with? Maybe it had mostly been a façade.

Using his left hand now, Pete stroked softly and slowly down Nigel’s spine, stopping when the young man tensed and only starting again when he had relaxed. Pete put his right hand down next to Nigel’s face. He stroked Nigel’s full lips with his thumb and, almost without realizing it, Nigel sucked the thumb into his mouth. Pete’s arousal built and he went harder at the feel of the soft, resilient skin overlying the steel of the well-toned body, alabaster marble white--the body of a Michelangelo’s “David,” the skin glimmering in contrast to the tanned, curly black hair covered hand of Pete’s as it glided across the skin. Pete lowered his face to the crease between Nigel’s shoulder blades and breathed in the honeysuckle scent of him. A kiss there caused Nigel to moan and tremble. Pete knew the intoxicating, fresh scent of the young man contrasted with his own, which he was aware, from what conquests had told him earlier, was musky, masculine.

The process of tensing, relaxing, progressing continued as Pete softly stroked and then more deeply massaged Nigel’s buttocks with circling strokes following the curves of the mounds, taking care to separate them to expose the bud of his entrance. From time to time Pete leaned down to blow on the hole to watch it pucker for him. The young man was relaxing more, trembling less as Pete took his time with him. The thumb wasn’t just in his mouth, Nigel was sucking on it.

Pete turned the young man slightly and ran a hand down his belly and into the strawberry-blond bush. Nigel moaned as Pete let his fingers play in the curls there, occasionally descending as far as the root of the cock and lingering there. Nigel’s moans became deeper, and Pete watched the young man engorge and then shudder as Pete ran his fingers down the top of the young’s man’s cock and then back up the vein on the underside.

Turning Nigel back onto his belly, Pete stood, hovering over the trembling young man. He reached over for a couple of pillows and Nigel answered his nudge and raised up on his knees for Pete to push the pillows under his belly. As he finished doing that, he let a finger run down Nigel’s perineum and down the line of the young man’s cock again, extending out from below his belly, between his slightly spread thighs. The young man’s cock stiffened rock hard to the touch. Nigel moaned and tensed up but when Pete pulled his hand away, he immediately relaxed. Pete was crouched over Nigel. He pulled his thumb from Nigel’s mouth and cupped the young man’s chin with that hand, moving Nigel’s head to the edge of the mattress so that he was facing Pete’s hard cock, the bulb resting on the mattress, almost touching Nigel’s lips.

The butt cheeks were kneaded some more and rhythmically pulled apart, and Nigel involuntarily spread his thighs more and began to move his pelvis with the rhythm. He didn’t notice at first the finger descending to rest on his rim, but his eyes went big and he moaned when he felt the first penetration. Pete moved his pelvis more into the bed, the bulb of his cock now pressing on Nigel’s lips. Nigel opened his mouth and took the bulb in. He knew how to suck, Pete was happy to find. He may not have taken many shafts up the ass before, but he’d given blow jobs.

Two fingers were in his ass, spreading him open, vibrating and increasing the sway of his hips. A finger tip found the young man’s prostate and rubbed, causing Nigel to tremble and groan with each rub on the hard mound. His stance widened even more, inviting, whether he knew it or not, deeper, thicker penetration, and another of Pete’s finger tips pressed on the prostate. Nigel tightened his lips’ hold on the base of Pete’s bulb, his flicking tongue licking at the precum he found there.

It was Pete’s turn to groan. He hadn’t realized how arousing slow and sensual long foreplay could be.

Pete was taking the young dancer slowly, Nigel hardly noticing how quickly they actually were progressing. Pete moved his hips forward and Nigel took three more inches of the cock inside his mouth, closing tightly over it.

But then he seemed to awaken to the seduction and he moaned, pushed the cock out of his mouth, and raised himself on his elbows as if he was contemplating rolling off the bed and away from Pete. Pete didn’t allow him to escape, though. He sat down on the side of the bed, twisted Nigel’s torso around to where they were chest to chest, embraced the young man strongly with his right arm around Nigel’s waist and took his mouth in a deep, passionate kiss. Pete’s left hand, slid through the strawberry-blond bush again, grasped Nigel’s cock and, holding the young man captive, Nigel gasped as Pete’s index finger went to the young man’s urethral opening, pressing it and rubbing it, insisting on it opening to the tip of his finger, which, with a moan from Nigel, it did, moistening Pete’s finger with precum.

Pete stroked him slowly, rhythmically, determinedly, to an ejaculation. Nigel struggled against him at first but soon settled down and gave up his seed with a sigh. The fingers of Pete’s left hand went back to Nigel’s ass opening, which Pete worked with one, two, three, and finally four fingers slick from Nigel’s own cum, once again paying attention to the prostrate, while Nigel groaned and produced a second, weaker ejaculation, and Pete possessed his mouth in a kiss.

Nigel was spent, but Pete was just beginning. Nigel also was mellow, completely under Pete’s control now and, his flexible little body was fully responsive to Pete’s manipulation. The young man was purring.

At length Pete rose back off the bed, let Nigel go down onto his belly, all the time with four fingers up the young man’s ass, and, when he pressed on Nigel’s lips with his cock this time, Nigel took him in almost to the hilt and, although gagging, lay there docile, taking him deep, as Pete face fucked him.

Nigel gave no more than a groan and a “Please be good to me” plea as Pete moved up onto the bed, mounted over him, extracted his fingers from Nigel’s ass, and started penetrating him with his hard cock, the soft walls of the young man’s passage only reluctantly giving in to the invading shaft despite the effort that had gone into opening him up. He may have been fucked before, Pete thought, but not by a real man.

With a gasp at the first penetration, Nigel reached up and grabbed the brass rungs of headboard and whimpered, as Pete slowly possessed him deep and started a slow pump. Nigel groaned and moaned, the knuckles of his hands white and bruising as the headboard started to rhythmically grate on the wall from the forward and back motion of the fuck.

Pete took him fully but gently that first time and then lowered himself on Nigel’s back, kissed him on his neck, and Nigel turned his head for a more passionate, deeper kiss. After they’d come out of that, Nigel whispered, “Fuck me again. I want you to fuck me again. I won’t fight you; I know I can take it now. Stay on top of me all night.”

“Oh, yes,” Pete answered in a low, guttural voice. “All that and more.”

Pete went up on his knees and slowly turned Nigel over on his back, repositioning the young man’s hips on the pillows. Nigel looked up at him with awe and want in his eyes, risking a tentative smile, his lips forming the whispered words, “Fuck me; make love to me,” as he raised his legs up and straight out from his body, grasping his lower calves with his hands. Hovering over him, between his stretched legs, Pete buried his fists on either side of Nigel’s shoulders and lowered his lips to the younger man’s mouth, which hungrily opened to him, Nigel sucking Pete’s tongue inside.

Nigel gave a little jerk when the bulb of the cock breached his sphincter muscle again, but he had been well opened before and the shaft slid right in. He arched his back and set his own passage wall muscles and his pelvis in motion as the deep stroking commenced. Pete, who usually drove it right in to savor his partner’s gasp and the total dominance that this represented--and had fully intended doing that with Nigel for the second penetration--moved instead up into Nigel’s passage slowly, enjoying the feel of his hard shaft rubbing over shimmering channel walls and the series of small gasps and deep moans and Nigel’s whispered, “Yes, yes, deeper. Yes, just like that. Possess me. I am yours. Oh, God, I’ve never been taken like this before.”

Taking it slow and easy and showing some regard for his partner was a totally new experience for Pete. He’d never fucked a man this slowly before, focusing on the progress of the hard cock up through the soft sponginess of the man’s channel, opening him up, stretching his walls, exploring into new territory. This was something beyond animal sex. This was affection--maybe something deeper even than that, something that Pete could not, would not, voice. Nigel enhanced the experience by murmuring, whimpering, and sobbing of his own pain-pleasure wonderment of being penetrated, invaded, conquered, fully possessed by a mammoth, throbbing cock deeper, thicker, harder than any man in his limited experience had gone before.

Being with Nigel was something strange and new too--something special. Nigel had expressed it as “making love.” Pete had never thought about it like this before, but now he did. Now, with Nigel, that’s what he thought he was doing--making love. All this time trying to deaden himself to face his dangerous life as a fighter-bomber aviator in war--going up every other day to the prospect of never coming down in one piece again--and suddenly now he felt totally alive again.

They both gave a little jerk and then a long, harmonious sigh as Pete’s ejaculate flowed, bathing Nigel’s channel deep. Pete held the smaller man tight and both sighed a second time as Pete released more seed--and then again. “Oh god, oh god,” Nigel whimpered.

Oh god indeed, Pete thought. He drew his cock out to the rim, but then took another long, deep slide. “Oh god! Oh shit! Oh FUCK!” Nigel cried out as he let his legs sink to the mattress and collapsed in complete surrender under Pete. Another withdrawal and long slide, the dancer’s passage now completely open to and measured to this specific cock. “Oh, fuckin’ shit, Peter!” and then a hold deep inside Nigel as his channel walls rippled over the hard shaft, slightly moving still in the lubrication of his cum. Not withdrawing, Nigel turned them both onto their sides, pulled the little dancer’s body into his, buried his lips into the hollow of Nigel’s throat, and gave a long sigh of satisfaction, continued his deep-probing movement as Nigel whimpered and moaned.

“Don’t leave me; don’t ever leave me,” Nigel murmured.

“I have to return to Duxford tomorrow,” Pete responded, with a low laugh.

“Never take your cock out of me again,” Nigel whispered.

Pete went to sleep, his mind for the first time, thinking of flying out over the channel to deliver death and destruction on the continent and, for the first time, fear creeping into where he’d only allowed the thrill of the flight to live before. For the first time that he could remember, he had something--someone--to live for.

Light was streaming through the small room’s one window, when Pete woke, Nigel’s body spooned into his, Nigel’s buttocks nestled into Pete’s crotch, Pete inside him, hard, but Nigel’s torso twisted around so that he was able to stroke Pete’s nipples and run his fingers through the curls of Pete’s black chest hair. He had a fascination with the swirling patterns of Pete’s hairiness and couldn’t get enough of running his fingers through the curls and licking them into a swirl around the man’s nipples.

“You’re awake,” Nigel whispered. “It’s late. You’ll be needing to get back to the aerodrome.”

“Last night you told me never to take my pecker out of you . . . to spike you forever.”

“Last night was fantasy. Today is reality. You have an important job to do.”

“I prefer the fantasy.”

“So, do I, and you smell of musk.”

“Do you want me to clean myself?” Pete asked.

“No, I love the scent. It’s manly.”

“It’s sex. Cum. It’s the smell of a healthy, cum-filled young man in heat.”

“Yes it is, and I wish we had time, but . . .  oh shit, oh fuckin’ shit.”

Pete had nuzzled his lips into the hollow of Nigel’s neck and kissed him. His right hand grasped Nigel’s right hip to hold him in place, and Pete started moving his cock--out, in further, out, in further yet. Nigel sighed and stretched his right hand back to cup the back of Pete’s head and hold it close into the hollow of his neck.

“We need to stop,” he murmured. “You’ll be late getting back to the airfield.” Pete’s right hand moved around to encase Nigel’s cock and started to work him. Nigel gave him a deep moan and set his pelvis in countermotion to Pete’s hardening, thickening, lengthening, throbbing, and relentless expanding up inside him. The action of his pelvis also had its effect on his cock, sheathed in Pete’s fist. Pete loosened his grip but left it encasing Nigel’s shaft, and as Nigel was moving his channel on Pete’s cock, he also was fucking Pete’s loose fist with his own. Nigel came with a sigh.

Slowly, gently Pete turned on his back, taking Nigel with him, draped on the front of him. His cock was so deeply embedded that it didn’t lose its purchase in the channel. Lacing his arms under Nigel’s pits, he put the small dancer into a full Nelson. Whispering, “Yes, yes, yes,” Nigel reached over his head to take a grip on the rungs of the brass headboard, as Pete laced his legs through Nigel’s and raised and spread them. Holding steady, his own sighs and moans a rich baritone to Nigel’s tenor, Pete remained rock hard for Nigel, as the flexible dancer raised and lowered his hips, fucking himself in long strokes on the thick shaft.

“He is mine, all mine--like no man before has ever been” went through Pete’s mind over and over again, in waves of wonder and appreciation. The sun rose higher in the sky and the minutes ticked away on the clock on the nightstand. The two men fucked on in an increasingly synchronized ballet of single-mechanism perfection.

* * * *

“He’s around here someplace. I’m sure that he’s getting his pilot’s prep work done.”

Alex stood at attention behind the wooden desk in the Duxford Aerodrome hangar while Major Flint gave him the evil eye, turned, and did a walk around Make Your Own Luck, Peter Porter’s P-47 Thunderbolt. He didn’t seem to see anything he didn’t like as far as preparation today, although there was more pilot preparation to do before the squadron took off on the next day’s mission. Alex knew he wouldn’t find anything to complain about, because what he’d told him was at least half true. This was the third day since the Taylors’ garden party. Pete had appeared at the aerodrome every day, but he hadn’t spent all of his time here. He hadn’t spent his nights here. And he hadn’t done all of the pilot preparation on his plane himself. Alex had done some of that.

And Alex was exhausted from doing his own work plus some of Pete’s while Pete had a fine old time laying the cute little redheaded viscount in Cambridge.

Major Flint finished making the circuit and came back to the desk. “Well, when you next see him, tell him to report to me.”

“Yes, Major,” Alex answered and then wearily sank into the chair behind the desk when the major had left the hangar. Pete hadn’t, in fact, been around much the last two days and when he was here he was dragging around in a stupor and was yawning. And he certainly wasn’t laying Alex, so the little redheaded piece must be wearing his pecker out. It wasn’t just that Pete was neglecting Alex; he was neglecting protocol on preparing for tomorrow’s mission, and there wasn’t margin for error in preparing for a mission.

Part of that preparation was their rituals too. Alex should return to the airmen’s barracks and get some shuteye himself. He was exhausted from this extra work--and from the worry of where Pete was and, more important, what the status of their own relationship was.

But it was rituals they always went through that he’d always thought were as important to Pete as they were to him. They had to go through their rituals tonight and it was already getting dark.

Alex’s eyelids were growing heavy and he . . . just . . . felt . . . like laying his head down on his folded arms on the desk top and getting a nap while he waited for Pete to return. And then that’s exactly what he did.

The next thing he knew, Pete was standing over him, shaking him, and telling him they were about to wheel the planes out and takeoff would be within twenty minutes.

“Can’t be,” Alex complained as he slowly regained consciousness. But then he looked up and saw the sunlight streaming into the hangar through the open door that a truck was towing Lucky Linda through. It couldn’t be, but it was morning already. Pete was half in his flight suit and Alex wasn’t.

“The rituals,” Alex mumbled.

“No time for those now,” Pete answered. “The lead birds are already on the runway.”

“The final prep,” Alex said.

“No time to finish those this time either. It’s time to just do it, good buddy.” The crew was pulling Make Your Own Luck out now, and Pete followed his plane out into the sunshine, while Alex dove for his flight suit. When he was adjusting the last of his straps and walking out onto the apron, he saw Pete ahead of him, waving. Instinctively he waved too. This was their last ritual before they took off in missions, Pete’s plane taking off close behind Alex’s. They waved to each other and gave each other a salute.

Pete was doing that now and Alex was going into his salute. But that’s when he noticed the two-tone burgundy and gray Jaguar salon car parked by the gate. Nigel was standing on the hood and waving for all his might. It was Nigel Pete was waving to and saluting, not Alex.

Dejected, Alex climbed into the cockpit of Lucky Linda, pulled the plane out onto the runway, and waited for instructions to take off. The whole procedure was closely orchestrated, with very little time separating each flight up into the air, where the squadron would form into their V to cross the channel. Alex’s eyes snapped open at a yelled instruction to fly coming over his radio from the tower. It had just been a second or two that he’d blanked out, but the drill didn’t allow for extra time.

He revved the engine, started the bird down the runway, picking up speed, and pulled her up into the air. He felt the jolt he shouldn’t have felt and then the heat from the explosion behind him, as Make Your Own Luck plowed into his tail, going faster than he was--faster than Pete should have been going--and its bombs exploding. The blinding flash caught his attention more than the heat of the blast. He saw the tree tops he was dipping into upon the jarring jolt, but the flash blinded him totally before impact--and then that was that.