The Aviators

Pete pulled around to where he was crouching between Alex's thighs and hovering over his trembling body, one hand on the small of Alex's back and the other positioning his hard cock. Alex hooked his knees on Pete's hips.

The blond jerked away from the kiss and arched his back and cried out as Pete entered him strongly, tightly, thickly, long and immediately started to pump. "Take it!" Pete cried out. "Take it all."

"Give it!" Alex cried back. "Fuck me into tomorrow. Fuckin' drill me!"

Pete did just that, reveling in the feel of power in his cock and of the groaning stretching of the channel walls, giving way to his relentless march deep up inside Alex. And then the stifled sobs as he began to move, drilling his prey ever deeper, mastering him, conquering him, expertly timing their ejaculations to be near simultaneous—but only when Pete allowed it.

Later, on a thick quilted blanket under the fuselage of Lucky Linda, after 69ing until Pete signaled they could stop, they reversed positions. Pete was on all fours and Alex was mounted on his ass, fucking him like a dog. Even in this Pete remained dominant, commanding Alex to go still when either of them felt close to coming and then taking over the fucking, Alex still holding steady and Pete pushing back at him, fucking himself on Alex's shaft, until Alex couldn't take it anymore and resumed thrusting. Only coming a second time when Pete gave permission and then coming close to each other again.

Sometimes there was more, with Pete on his back, holding Alex on his body, facing up, Pete's shaft buried up Alex's channel and Alex leveraging off the belly of Lucky Linda with his feet to rise and fall on the cock. Alex would never tell Pete, but this position gave him an extra charge, as he felt his plane was part of the act, making it an act of love and not just a ritual and release of sex.

Alex had learned some time earlier not to refer to what they did as love. He had whispered the word once and, in anger, Pete had cold cocked him for two days. Alex had gotten the message. It was ritual release. They'd had a good mission after the first time they'd done it, so it had become part of the ritual. Alex didn't have the courage to reveal to Pete again that it was more than a ritual for him.

They fucked like a well-oiled machine, sensing what to do next, how to move further along the program of their pre-mission ritual, always under the guidance of Pete.

They had observed this ritual for the last hundred and seventeen missions. So far they had come back unscathed from every one of them.

Each time Alex lay with Pete he felt overwhelmed by the strength, masterfulness, and dominance of his squadron buddy. When Pete was fucking him, the rest of the world went away. And in the end he felt almost satisfied. Almost. He just couldn't help to wish he'd gotten something more, something more tender and loving when the immediate heat of the animal need had been satisfied. He felt something more for Pete than Pete seemed willing or wanting to feel with Alex. For all his bravado about how the war and the ever-impending threat of death that hung over all of their heads, he couldn't help but wanting more. Whereas Alex was willing to give his all—to love—Pete was holding that level of affection in reserve. Ever hopeful, Alex remained totally open to Pete, giving him everything. Pete took whatever he wanted, as if by right.

Chapter Two: Party Like There's No Tomorrow

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.