asconian's blog

 (partially real). 

 The BAC 1-11 left Alicante under a still-clean sky. By the Channel, Gatwick closed like a fist. The storm was not the polite kind they announce over the PA. It was a blunt wall of water and electricity. From the aft galley I watched lightning come in through the windows. The aircraft was not flying. It was being shaken. I was 25-five years old. Dan-Air uniform still stiff across the shoulders. I was sweating from fear and from the shame of sweating. Three attempts. On the third, the tail touched. It was not a textbook accident. There was no evacuation. But the jolt ran down the aisle like a bone snapping. Passengers screamed. I grabbed a seatback and felt my stomach rise into my throat. When we finally rolled and the engines died, my hands were shaking. Harris came down from the flight deck with his cap still on, jacket tight, two days of stubble darkening his jaw. He did not shout. He gave instructions. He took us to the hotel the way you gather someone who has fallen. 

He was forty-five. He looked less. A rugby player in his free time, still wearing the body that had made him one: thick neck, heavy shoulders, the kind of chest that filled a shirt without asking. Hair cut short, military, already receding at the temples. Handsome in a way that did not need to be announced. The hotel airport room smelled of damp carpet and cheap tea. I showered. I sat on the edge of the bed and could not stop hearing metal. I cried without sound, the way you cry when you have only just joined and do not want anyone to know you are not made yet. 

A knock. Captain alpha-Harris. No cap. Uniform shirt open. He looked at me for a second and understood.

 “Open,” he said, low. Are you Ok?. I know, boy, it´s the worst experience for a rookie. But nothing wrong happens in my plane, with a seductive, strong voice. That sounding conforting

I stepped back. He shut the door. He saw my face and did not ask. He put an arm around me and pulled me into his chest. The uniform smelled of ozone, galley coffee, and a man who had sweated for real. I broke against him. He held. And then, because the body does not ask permission, I realised I was hard. He felt it too. He did not step away. He pushed me to the wall with a slowness that was not rough. It was a decision. The back of my head against the wallpaper. His chest against mine. A large hand on my nape, thumb behind the ear, fingers on my shoulder as if he were measuring whether I was still in one piece. 

“Thanks for coming captain Harris,” He said, very close to my temple. You’re not in the air anymore.” 

He touched my neck, the traps, the line of the T-shirt. It was not a manual embrace. It was the weight of a man who had decided he would not let go until I stopped shaking. I breathed against his collarbone. He set his forehead to mine. My thigh stayed between his. The comfort had become something else, and we both knew it.

 “Lie down, and have some sleep.” 

He took me to the bed. He did not let go. He sat me, laid me back, stayed a moment almost over me, knee on the mattress, the shadow of his body covering the lamp. In reality he stopped there. He saw the nerves, the fear still open, and chose not to go on. That happened. What I want now is what that night did not have time to become. When he laid me on my back so I would rest, I did not rest. The body, betrayed by the landing and by the hug, rebelled.

 Harris understood it wrong — or understood it too well — and used the strength he had. He pinned my wrists to the pillow with one hand. With the other he opened the front of my shirt. A button jumped. Another hung. His palm, hot, settled on my sternum. Skin to skin for the first time. 

“Need a relaxing wrestling therapy boy?.” He showed a dangerous look in his eyes.

I didn´t step back. Twenty-five, pride raw from having been frightened in front of everyone, I pushed. Harris was more. Much more. He rolled me onto my side the way you turn a man in a ruck, slid an arm under my ribs and locked me against him. Through the uniform trousers I felt him, thick, patient, in no hurry. I struggled. The bed creaked. He laughed low, not mockery. Recognition.

 “That’s it,” he said against my ear. “Fight my mouse, if you have to. You will sleep very well afterwards.” 

We got our uniforms off. His body was a masterpiece. Mine less impresive but still decent. He put me down again. We rolled. The blanket went to the floor. I ended up astride him for a second, hands on his shoulders, and he reversed me with an ease that was almost insulting: onto my back, knee opening my legs, hand on my hip. His weight was a verdict. His breath was on my mouth. We were both sweating. 

We were in briefs, skin to skin. I flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the aircraft. Harris looked at my chest, the shape of the erection. Dark shorts. The thickness obvious. He caught my nape again and pulled me to that smooth chest. His skin against mine was something else: wide, soft, nothing that scratched, only heat and muscle. I bit the hollow of his shoulder, not hard. He made a sound. The fight grew slower and dirtier. He pinned my wrists above my head. I arched and got one leg free, hooked it around his hip, tried leverage. For an instant I thought I moved him. Harris smiled with his teeth and flattened me to the mattress with his whole body. His mouth on my neck. His hand down the rib, the side, the elastic. He put his fingers inside the briefs and held me. He did nothing more. He had me. 

The way you hold something you do not intend to let slip. His thumb brushed the head, barely, and I jerked; he took it into his chest. I grabbed his big cock and gave him the best hand job ever. I got onto my side, face in the pillow, ass against his groin. He wrapped my waist with one arm and squeezed until the air went short and sweet. Between us, the rubbing was constant: his hardness along mine, the cloth of our briefs more useless by the second. Every time I pushed back, he brought his hips forward. Every time I tried to slip upward, that smooth chest put me back on the mattress. Our erections were solid rock.

We fought to the edge of the bed and back up. I got his shorts down with both hands, clumsy, wild, while he held one wrist. We were naked all at once, not with ceremony: with a last pull and the clothes in a heap by the chair. Body to body. Harris’s smooth chest covering me whole. His flat stomach on mine. His cock hot along mine when he put me on my back again. We rubbed like that, wrestling, not inside yet. The friction was already wet, exact, head against head, thigh against thigh. I moved my hips so as not to miss it and so as not to give in. He held my nape and set the rhythm with his weight. I kept fighting. So did he. He put me on my front. He held the nape of my neck to the bed.  He put me on my front. Not to go on. To finish it. 

The large hand closed on the nape of my neck and put my face to the sheet. The other took my hip and pinned it to the mattress. There was no hurry. There was weight. Harris’s smooth chest covering the whole of my back, his thighs opening mine, his pelvis holding me in place. I tried once more: a twist of the shoulder, a knee looking for leverage, the pride of twenty-five. He waited for the movement and shut it down. A small adjustment. The elbow in. The wrist taken to my back, not in anger: with the craft of a man who has tackled bodies larger than mine.

Between us there was no room left. His cock lay along mine, trapped in the heat of two stomachs, wet from the fight. Every time I tried to rise, he put me back, and the movement dragged us together. A gasp against my ear. Another in the sheet. We did not take our hands off the struggle. We only rubbed, short, hard, unavoidable. His breath broke first. Mine followed. We came like that, panting, cock against cock, the mess of it caught between our bellies, the last of the fight still in our arms.

“That’s enough.” That’s it. Sleep. I’m here.”

He covered me. He settled me. The lightning stayed outside, against the glass. My wrists were marked, my face hot from the sheet, Harris’s smell on the skin. He stroked my back with a slowness that asked for no second round and no further proof. Only the sure weight beside me.

“Briefing in the morning. Tonight you don’t fall.”