My Hero

Thankfully the teacher passes out aprons. She stares at me and Otis in our fancy get-up with raised eyebrows, accurately reading into the situation before moving on. Everyone else puts their apron on so Otis and I don't feel silly doing it, and we manage to get through the entire lesson without a single drop of paint or ink touching our clothes.

There isn't a chance to talk with the headphones on. I am quickly lost in my own sort of artistic trance listening to classical music while I let my paintbrush roam free without too much thought. I try metal and dub-step with interesting results, and make a mental note to try the latter again some time.

Less than a minute after I take my apron off at the end of the class, I turn around and walk right into Janet who splatters her tray of inks across my chest. It soaks right through to my skin.

"Omigod!" she squeals and tray clatters to the ground to get my shoes and jeans as well. "I'm so sorry, Peter. I'll clean it for you."

"It's alright, I've got it," I mumble. I hurry into the back room and swap the shirt for an apron, then stand at the sink and rinse as much of the colour out of it. There's no salvaging it for our date.

Otis finds me. "We can try again another time," he says unhappily, hands in his pockets. "I don't expect you to want to go out with a wet, stained shirt. I won't force you to either." He looks so disconsolate I want to give him a hug, but my apron has wet paint on it.

I can't bear seeing Otis like this, not when I can do something about it.

"Why don't we go back to your place? Pizza and a movie?"

"Place-holder date it is," he says, beaming.

We walk back to his place. My shirt is still wet and the sun is still out, so I wear it unbuttoned and it flaps slightly in the wind.

Otis can't keep his eyes off me. When he realises I'm watching him watch me, he offers to hold the shirt for me. I laugh and button it up.

"I was being serious," Otis says. "You've got a really nice body. You should be proud of it. If I looked like you, I'd be showing it off all the time."

We reach his apartment, and he finds his smallest shirt which looks three times my size. I thank him and take my shirt off to change in the living room. My chest is still mottled with blended inks and I groan.

"Hey Otis, reckon I can take a quick shower?"

"Yeah, might as well. I'll order the pizza while you're doing that."

Otis finds me a clean towel, and again can't seem to take his eyes off my bare chest. He runs a thumb down my smooth chest and I can see him biting his lower lip. I wait for him to do more, but he pulls back.

"Go wash your perfect body," he sighs, smitten and not afraid to show it. "What toppings do you want on the pizza?" he calls out as I step in the shower cubicle.

"Whatever you're having!"

Once I'm clean I put on his giant shirt and join Otis on the couch. I have my underpants on, but don't bother wearing my inky jeans. Otis offers me some pants, but the delivery man knocks on the door and he gets up to collect and pay for the pizza. When he sits back down, he makes my side of the couch jump and I giggle.

"What? What did I do?" he asks innocently, and sets the pizza box on the coffee table. The bemused look on his face only makes me laugh even harder. "Aw c'mon, tell me!" The corners of his mouth tilt up, and he starts tickling me. I yelp in surprise and tickle him back, and soon we're rolling around on the couch, hiking each other's shirts up and tickling each other while the pizza sits there forgotten. I lose my shirt, but manage to hitch his up over his head and scurry my fingers up and down his sides which has him gasping for breath.

When the laughter finally subsides, I'm straddling his lap with my hands resting firmly on his hairy chest. Otis's shirt is off and lost somewhere behind the couch. He holds me against him with his large hands pressed against my lower back and I run my hands through the hair on his body. I can feel his erect penis nudging mine, and mine responds like it has a life of its own.

"Otis..."

He brushes the hair from my face and kisses me.

His soft lips leave mine tingling and wanting more. I wrap my arms around his neck and I kiss him again, and this time his lips part under my own.

I can feel his cock throbbing under me, and I reach down to grab it.

"Mmph. Peter, don't..."

I shift back a bit and rub him through his jeans. He reaches hesitantly for mine. I grab his hand and hold it against my cock. He rubs me through my underwear, and it feels so good. His hands are warm, and his fingers jostle and stroke my cock and balls.

"Fuck, you're rock hard..." he breathes.

His hips thrust gently as I rub him, and he tilts his head back with a moan. I unzip him.

"Don't..."

But he offers no further resistance.

With my help his cock springs free from his boxer-briefs. It is as big as I had imagined since seeing its shadow in the restroom. It's easily 9 inches and is as thick as my wrist. I don't know how I'm going to wrap my lips around that, but I can't wait to give it a try.

"Peter, stop," he says when he sees what I'm about to do. He pulls his underwear over his monster of a cock, and the waistband bounces back to his hips with a definite snap.

I'm confused. I know it's not a size issue for him -- he's hung like a god. He clearly has no problem getting it hard.

"Don't you want me?"

"I want you so fucking bad, Peter, you have no idea..." He kisses me to prove it. "But I've been with guys where we suck on the first date, fuck on the second, and by the third he's seen and done everything and you never hear from him again. It hurts, and it makes you feel like shit. So now I have a rule where I go slowly with any guy who means something to me."

His eyes search mine, and I see a flicker of worry in them. He's so attentive to my needs and my thoughts, and I know with certainty I could wait a whole year for him if he asked.

I think I'm falling in love. And he hasn't even seen my dick yet.

I'm not ready to admit it yet, so I kiss him, opened mouth and find his tongue with my own. He squeezes my ass gently, one cheek and then the other, while I grind myself against him. His finger strays to rub my hole and soon his belly is slick with my pre-come.

We are so getting blue balls tomorrow.

We make-out until our stomaches are growling, then we detach ourselves from each other and reheat the pizza in the microwave. Otis puts on the movie; it's The Fellowship of the Ring. He kicks off his pants and shirt and we settle side by side on the couch wearing only our underwear.

Not how I imagined how our first date would look.

"I'm taking you out on a proper date next time," Otis promises, devouring half his slice in one bite.

"This is perfect, Otis. I love the view. I love the movie, too."

"It's my favourite too." He winks at me, and I can't tell if he's talking about me or the movie.

We polish off the pizza and then snuggle up on one side of the couch. Otis doesn't have to work Monday nights, and it feels so good with his arms wrapped around me we decide to attempt the whole 9-hour marathon and watch all three movies. I fall asleep near the end of The Two Towers.

I wake up the next morning in Otis's bed, with my last memory of being on the couch.

I'm not in my bed -- my first instinct is panic.

'I want you so fucking bad, Peter, you have no idea...'

I leap off Otis's crisp white sheets and check myself. My underpants are still intact. I do a strange sort of stationary march on the spot. I've never been fucked so I don't know what it'd feel like afterwards, but I'm not sore -- and I think I would be, if Otis had stretched me out with his 9 inches. Then the panic fades and I realise I'm being stupid.

My reflection in the mirror catches my eye and I stare at it perplexedly. I look a little dishevelled, but happier and healthier than I have in a long time. It takes me a few seconds before it hits me -- the bruises on my jaw have finally cleared.

I make my way into the living room and find Otis curled up on the couch under a blanket. He's like a cosy little boulder. The sight of him sleeping alone makes me want him even more, but I wake him up with a chaste kiss on the cheek. I've got a morning class to go to, I tell him, and he offers to make me breakfast but I need to get home for clean clothes.

We hug, kiss again, and I rush home to clean my teeth and take a shower. I barely have to touch my cock before it's spewing forth string after string of come.

**

The next few weeks fly past, and are some of the happiest moments of my life.

I go back to Otis's place whenever we're both free, and he puts me onto Game of Thrones. I nearly stopped watching after the first episode, thinking that the little kid dies, but he promises it gets better. I end up loving it, as he knew I would, and we demolish the rest of the season as well as the second. Otis can't wait to introduce me to the Firefly universe.

When we aren't watching TV and movies, playing video games together or just being close to each other while we read or work on our art, we're passionately kissing. It's something both of us love to do for hours on end.

I spend the night at his place every few days and we start sleeping in the same bed. There's nothing quite like it, being spooned by a bigger hairy man. Except maybe kissing in bed, of which we do all the time now.

I don't know exactly when we're properly 'together', but it sinks in when Janet, Kyle, Otis and I go on a couple's date to try out a new Italian restaurant.

Otis keeps to his promise of taking me out on a proper outing as well -- just the two of us -- and does so a few times. He pampers me on each occasion and I try not to feel guilty eating at a restaurant where the entrees alone have a $32 price tag. After living as a student for so long I'm amazed that so much money can result in so little food. With Otis by my side, however, not even the outrageous prices can ruin the amazing time we always have.

I conquer my fear and return to Exile, not to dance or drink but to meet Otis's friends. Matt greets me with a familiar kiss, and I become friends with him, as well as the other bouncers, the two full-time bartenders and the owner, Ralph. I hang out there occasionally on the quieter nights when Otis is working, and the regulars soon know who I am.

Our end-of-term art exhibition draws closer and I build on my painting of Otis over the weeks. I am constantly inspired by the real thing to improve it until it can do him justice. I can pretty much work off memory now, having seen him with his shirt off so often. The artwork's title comes to me gradually, but every time I think about it I smile.

Otis and I don't get much further than kissing and grinding and some light rubbing and spanking, and I sense he's holding back something. But I'm happy to wait as long as it takes, and likewise, Otis is content doing what we do.

**

The school term ends, and we all showcase our best work in the exhibition. The pieces will stay up for the duration of the two week break, but there's a casual opening night with catering and speeches. It's a pretty good turnout.

We stick to our areas and talk to the viewers. It's a good way to scope out potential jobs for the future as well, and I manage to get a few downright insulting job offers but not much else. When the opening night wraps up, I wander through the gallery and find Otis's work. I want him to see mine, as I've been keeping it a secret from him so far.

His piece consists of two large prints facing each other, made to look like Otis is looking at himself in a bathroom mirror, and the viewer can walk between them. The two images are mirrored copies, save for a tattoo of Otis's design plastered on the forehead. The tattoo is a variation of a reflection ambigram, designed so it reads 'BEAUTY' one way, and when 'mirrored', reads 'BEAST'.

There's an old couple arguing about what Otis is trying to convey.

"He clearly sees himself as a beast in society's eyes, but alone, he knows he's beautiful."

"No, no, no. The artist is the so-called Beauty. This is a message on vanity -- he thinks he's attractive, but others don't agree."

I don't see Otis anywhere in the student's break room, so I wander around a bit more and find him taking a breather alone in an empty classroom. He's toying with his glasses and looks a little unhappy, so I sit next to him and wrap an arm around him. He grabs my hand and holds it tightly.

"I saw your piece," I say after a while.

Otis nods.

"What's wrong?" I ask, frowning.

He sighs, and tells me, "I always thought cryptic meanings in your art were for assholes, but look at me now. Spent most of the night explaining what my intention was over and over -- no-one understood it. That hidden, secret message we fold into our craft... It's like we're reaching out, asking without words the questions we're too afraid to voice: if anyone understands me, if anyone shares my view on the world... And tonight, not a single person answered back."

"I understand you." And I bravely attempt to show I understand him.

There's a lot riding on this.

"You're not the Beauty or the Beast," I start boldly. He doesn't shake his head, so it's a good start. "You're not vain enough to put yourself in either position -- things like that don't bother you. That part isn't the focus of the message, anyway. What matters is that the viewers -- society -- are the ones who look and judge and label us. They argue and decide whether you fall within the acceptable parameters of what's considered beautiful, and you don't get much of a say in it. So it doesn't matter what you think about yourself, because others will judge you anyway."

"Spot on, Peter," he says in a watery voice, and pecks me on the cheek. "Don't worry, I'm not upset. Just bummed out."

My heart breaks for him. Does he really think that way about himself?

"You're always telling me to appreciate my body and to be proud. You should be proud too."

Otis shrugs. "Yeah, I guess so..."

"I wouldn't want you to change a thing. I -- like you just the way you are." The word 'love' nearly slips out, but my belly does an odd flop and I change it at the last second. Now doesn't seem like the right time, anyhow.

"It is okay, Peter. You don't need to say that to cheer me up. I know I'm not your preferred type. I saw the way you kissed Matt that first night, the way you cringed away from him and how turned off you were by his size. You felt obligated to be with me because I saved your life, and now you stay with me because I make you feel safe."

I pull him roughly to his feet without a word and march him back to the gallery. The floor is empty now and it's quiet. I lead him right to my painting.

It's a life-sized portrait of Otis, in sombre greyscale on a black background. The lighting makes him look majestic, and I know I've successfully captured his beauty. I've also captured all his flaws -- the stretchmarks on his hips and under the shoulder, his scars and the loneliness in his eyes, but I've painted it in a way that accentuates him instead of detracting from his character. With a fine brush I've even given every single hair on his body the detail and accuracy it deserves.

Otis whistles in appreciation. "Peter, you made me look hot! I can't believe --"

He leans in to read the title and goes silent.

I've named it 'Perfection'.

"I didn't have to 'make' you anything, Otis. I painted what I saw. I did start out feeling drawn to you because you were my protector, but you're so much more to me now. You're the most beautiful and amazing person in the world -"

I pause and give myself time so I can gather the courage to say what I've been dying to say. But the words come easily -- it's the easiest thing I've ever said out loud.

"I love you."

Otis looks at me strangely. He's stunned. For a horrible second I think I must've misread every signal he's sent me. But then he crushes me in a fierce bear hug and rumbles in my ear, "I love you too, Peter."

We kiss passionately, holding each other, until a cleaner trudges past and coughs rudely.

Otis grabs my hand with a wicked grin and pulls me into the unlit corridors. He leads me into a small supply storeroom and locks the door behind us. He grabs a folded table cloth, throws it on the ground and gets down on his knees on top of it to unzip my fly.

I giggle and squirm out of his grasp. "Otis, but we'll get caught here!"

"I do plan on giving you a screaming orgasm, so that all works out." In a more serious tone, he adds, "I can't wait any longer, Peter. I've wanted to do this for so long."

I'm breathless with excitement -- I've never felt this giddy over a blow-job before.

Otis unzips me and pulls my erect member out. It's average in every dimension, but he lets out a sigh in content. "It's perfect," he says, lightly running his fingers along the sides of my shaft, cradling it in his hands. He flicks the tip of his tongue up and down the underside of my cock, and then sucks on my foreskin.

Otis takes his own monster cock out and strokes it while he teases me with his tongue.

I'm shivering with anticipation.

He looks up at me with his eager, loving eyes and takes me into his mouth.

"Ooh... Oh Otis, oh my god..." I can't help but moan as he sucks me gently, bobbing his head forward and twisting as he pulls back. He uses his tongue to rub the underside of my cock in a circular motion with each passing.

His fingers find my balls and he pulls them ever so gently. His other hand snakes up under my shirt to roll a nipple between his forefinger and thumb. I throw my head back, breathing heavily from the pleasure he's drawing out of me.

"Otis... Otis, I'm getting close. You're gonna make me come, baby..."

Otis lets go of my balls and sneaks his hand back to rub and tease my ass. He buries his face in my crotch and his tongue swirls around and around my cock, and I start to come.

"Ooooh- Oh! OH FUCK! Otis, I'm coming!"

Screaming orgasm achieved.

I grab his head and thrust forward, and I unload into his mouth. He swallows hungrily after each shot, again and again, until I'm done. He sucks lightly as he pulls away and leaves my dick glistening with his saliva, but without a single droplet of semen.

He stands up, licks his lips and we kiss again. His dick slides up between my legs; it's warm and thick and rubs against my flaccid penis. We shuffle on the spot until his back is against the wall, and I drop to my knees.

I stand up again so quickly a bone clicks in my ankle.

"Peter, what's wrong?" Otis asks, but I just shake my head.

"C'mon," he whispers gently, and takes me further into the room. He finds a stack of chairs and pulls two of them out. He lies back across them and his cock stands straight up like a sundial.

He knows me better than I know myself; having a towering figure above me while I'm on my knees triggered the memories I worked so hard to be in control of.

But he's no longer towering above me.

I kneel down between his legs and repeatedly slide his foreskin over his large head and back down. It's so thick my fingers don't quite wrap all the way around. He moans a little.

"That feels so good, Peter..."

And he's not just saying that. Pre-come pulses out of his cock and I jerk him slowly until most of his head and shaft is slick with it. I swirl my tongue around his head, kissing and licking up the pre-come; it's sweet, and a little salty.

I explore his shaft with my tongue, making him shudder and moan all the way down to his heavy balls. It smells a little sweaty and is covered in hair, but I bravely run a tongue up one side and am surprised at how good it feels. It's so soft and it tastes like him. I lap at his nut sack and each of his balls spends some time inside my mouth while my hands explore his generous belly. Otis is moaning loudly now. He's reaching down to hold my hair up to keep it out of the way.