The Aviators

"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.

Chapter Three: Holding Pattern

They told him they put him in the conservatory on sunny days because the doctors had said he needed the sunshine. Autumn had arrived and it was too cold for him to sit, immobile, on the terrace. Immobile was Alex's only option these days—at least for a while. A broken arm and leg and being blind—it was hoped only temporarily—meant he wasn't going anywhere on his own for a while. He'd been lucky, they said. Inexplicably, they said, he'd been thrown from the plane and landed on strong, leaf-cushioned tree branches. If he'd remained with Lucky Linda, he would have been burned to a crisp. They'd said it was inexplicable, but Alex knew it was because he'd been sloppy about strapping himself in the plane on takeoff. He'd said nothing about that.

He'd said nothing about the sloppiness and the lack of following ritual, because he knew that had a role in what had happened. They—his aviator compatriots at the aerodrome and even the Taylors here—had, in turn, not responded to his questions about what had happened to Pete. Their nonresponse was all the response he needed.

Angela Taylor was giving him a sponge bath on a wrought-iron chaise in the glassed-in conservatory. He was stripped down and embarrassed at all the areas she was touching in giving him the bath—this in spite of being in her bed every night. It just wasn't the same—what happened in a glass room in the day and what happened in a bedroom in the dark of the night.

He was at their mercy—both Angela's and Curt's—at night too. Just a cock and a bung hole for their pleasure. Not that it didn't give him pleasure too—it's just that he was completely submissive to however they wanted to use him with the constraints of his wounds.

The bright flash when Pete's plane exploded had blinded Alex. It had fried his retinas, they'd said. They also said that should be a temporary issue—that they'd rejuvenate themselves and when his arm and leg were mended, he'd be able to return to the air. They'd said it like Alex wanted to return to the war—to raining death down from the skies over Nazi-held territory on the continent. And he supposed he did. He couldn't think of anything else he had to live for until he fell out of the sky again. Pete was dead. And he hadn't fully realized what Pete meant to him until Pete wasn't there anymore.

He'd had to convalesce somewhere, and the Taylors had stepped up to take over his care. The doctors and the squadron commander, Major Flint, had thought they were bricks for doing that—that they, as displaced Americans, not able to travel over dangerous waters back to the States, were doing what they could for the war effort here in taking a wounded American airman in to care for. Although he was, certainly, grateful for the care, Alex knew the Taylors had really taken him in for the use of his cock and bung hole beyond the public recognition of their contribution to the war effort.

While Angela worked his cock up now, as he lay on his back on the iron couch, under the guise of giving him a thorough sponge bath, he could hear her humming. And then he could feel her climbing up onto the chaise; settling herself on his hips; holding his cock in position; and then impaling herself with a quickness of breath, from both of them, making deep moaning sounds, and rising and falling on the staff, as his breathing became belabored and he felt the sap rise, until, increasing her gyrations and urging him to be good to her, he gave her his seed.

She spoke of it, with amusement in her voice, as his exercise time. But in more serious moments she spoke of growing older, coming close to no longer being about to produce, and of how important motherhood was to her. When she was drunk, she spoke of the waste of Pete and of how she'd wanted his child. She was more circumspect when sober, talking of how Curt was sterile but they both wanted to be parents—that they could afford children, that she wanted to have Alex's baby, no strings attached.

Alex didn't really care if this was true or if she was just trying to rationalize wanting to be fucked regularly. If she wanted to ride his cock nearly daily and take his spunk, that was OK with him. He didn't care much about anything these days. She rode his cock and he took Curt's cock. In exchange, they housed him, fed him, and were nursing him back to health—so he could go back up in the air, bomb more Germans, and fall out of the sky again. Well, OK.

With slight embarrassment on his part, she sponged and jerked him off and rode his cock by day, and by night, he slept between them, him inside Angela and Curt inside him—him blind and in splints entirely at their mercy and manipulation. It was OK with him until he was well enough to take to the skies again. They were arousing enough; he could get it up with them and they all were satisfied with the results.

What he actually looked forward to were the visits by the viscount, Nigel. The young ballet dancer came every other day, it seemed, and read to him—and asked him questions about the Pete Alex knew before those few days that Nigel and Pete had been together. Alex initially was jealous that Nigel obviously had had something with Pete, if only briefly, that Alex and Pete hadn't achieved. But sensing how important this was to the young man, Alex painted for him the Pete Alex thought the young man wanted to know. He didn't come close to telling him of the Pete—the forceful, total master—who Alex had known and only now realized that he had loved. He sensed that Nigel had genuinely—and hopelessly—loved Pete too, and he didn't want to steal the young man's memory of Pete. He sensed that Pete would not have wanted him to. But Nigel's Pete obviously had been a different man than Alex's Pete had been.

Still, this was just a holding pattern. Alex knew it would all come to a head one day—and it did, partially because of Nigel's need and partially because of his own. In bringing a new novel by Somerset Maugham to read to Alex, Nigel brought it all out into the open. It was only while the Taylors were gone on an excursion, leaving Nigel to visit with Alex and as Nigel was reading from The Razor's Edge that Alex realized how close Maugham had come to describing him—and his underlying struggle. Despite their generosity, he had been put off underneath it all by the Taylors and their lifestyle ever since their sex-driven garden party earlier in the summer. And that had brought forth something that existed as a barrier between him and Pete too.

The Razor's Edge was about Alex himself, he realized, as Nigel read it. He, Alex, was on the razor's edge and had been ever since he'd arrived in England and came under the sway of the patrician Peter Porter. Alex was anything but patrician. He was living a lie here, stretched out on a fancy iron couch in the glass conservatory of a fancy manor house, with a notable actor and best-selling novelist in his bed—well, their bed.

Larry Darrell, Maugham's protagonist in the book, was a World War I aviator who had been wounded and who fell into high-flying society and traveled the world, taking construction jobs and trying to live an authentic life at his natural level, but always being swept up into society. Pete and the Taylors had done this to Alex under strikingly similar circumstances. As Nigel read, Alex's frustrations grew in seeing himself in Maugham's new book. Maugham could be writing about him, he thought. For a brief moment he wondered if Curt and Angela knew Maugham and that, indeed, Maugham had written about him. But then he realized that the book must have been written before he met the Taylors, even if it only recently had been launched.

He didn't realize that tears were streaming down his cheeks from underneath the blindfold he wore to protect his eyes, until Nigel pointed it out. "You're crying," he said. "It's Pete, isn't it, because this Darrell character is a fighter pilot and so was Pete?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Alex said, not wanting to reveal that the connection to the book was closer to him than that—that Nigel seemed incapable of seeing beyond Pete and that his only true regard for Alex was in his past connection with Pete.

"I miss him too," Nigel said. And from the way he said it, Alex realized Nigel was crying too.

Then Alex felt it—Nigel's hand on his crotch, feeling him up, causing Alex to harden. Alex had no more trouble hardening for Nigel than Pete ever had, but he was shocked by what was happening now. Nigel was unbuttoning his fly and pulling his cock out.

"Nigel?"

"I can't stand it anymore—not knowing. You are an aviator too. You were so close to Pete. You are so much like Pete. I've wondered . . . hoped . . ."

"Nigel?" Alex said again, but then he was moaning as Nigel took his cock inside his mouth and gave him deep-throated suck.

"Nigel, Nigel," Alex whispered, as he took Nigel's head lovingly in his hands, held it in position, and began to move his hips. He realized that, for the moment, he was Pete for Nigel, that Nigel was only doing this because of that illusion. But Alex had wanted to fuck Nigel from the very beginning too. If he had to be Pete for the moment to do that, so be it.

When Alex was hard, Nigel was moving up the wounded aviator's body with his tongue, licking up the trail of fine hair leading up Alex's flat belly and on up sternum to expand out to cover his pecs, as his fingers unbuttoned Alex's shirt, flaring it open. Alex realized that Nigel already was naked. Nigel sucked on one of Alex's nipples while thumbing the other one. "Your chest is hairy, like Pete's," he said. "But blond." He ran his fingers through the fine, downy hair and licked the hair around the nipples into a swirling pattern.

"Yes," Alex said. What else could he say? He realized that Nigel was using him as a surrogate for the unattainable Pete. He felt guilty taking advantage of that, but he ached to fuck the young man.

"And you're big, like Pete. Hung." His hand encased Pete's staff, stroking it and thumbing the slit in the glans.

"Yes," Alex answered, flinching as he felt Nigel hold his cock in position and descend on it.

"Pete said all American men are hung."

"Did he? Oh god, oh shit." Nigel was fucking himself on Alex's staff. Alex was hard as a rock for him.

"And so far he has been right."

Alex didn't answer because Nigel had lowered his face to go into a passionate kiss, and Alex was lost for the rest of the fuck, using his more serviceable hand to stroke Nigel off as the small ballet dancer rode him to an ejaculation.

It was nice, but, disappointing and deflating, nothing earth-shattering for Alex. It obviously was the same for Nigel, as the young man came off the cock with a sob. "I'm sorry. It was good, but not the same. You're not Pete."

"No, Nigel, I'm not Pete, nor will I ever be Pete." At this moment Alex realized he didn't want to be Pete. He didn't want to be in Pete's league. And he didn't want to be in the Taylors' league either. He didn't want to run along the razor's edge. He wanted to be Alex.

"Nigel," he said, wanting to give the young man comfort but also wanting to help him to see reality—no, all Americans weren't sexual gods. Nigel had to find his own gods now. But Nigel didn't answer. He wasn't there anymore.

But someone was there. The Taylors couldn't be back yet, surely. But Alex could hear the heavy breathing. He felt the hands on his thighs. Calloused hands; a strong grip. A gag or some sort was wrapped around his head, covering his mouth. He was being roughly treated. His wrists were being bound, pulled above his head and secured at the top of the iron chaise. His legs were being gripped in those strong, calloused hands and were being raised and split. No quarter was being given for his casted arm and leg—now in just tightly wrap bindings—and the sharp pain when they were jerked caused him to shriek through his gag. It also brought flashes before his eyes, giving him the first hopeful clue that his eyes were on the mend.

A mouth was at his ass, sloppily, but very effectively eating him out, and Alex groaned at the crude pleasure of it, of the slurping noises and grunts, and dirty mutterings of the man, who obviously was taking great pleasure from this.

It was a man, he now knew, because the man had his cock out and was positioning it between Alex's thighs and was slapping it on Alex's stomach and thighs. The man had pulled Alex's buttocks up off the chaise and had run Alex's legs up his chest. Alex could tell he was both heavy and muscular.

Alex arched his back and screamed through the gag again, as the man thrust something hard and thick inside him—not as flexible as a man's cock—twisted it full circle. and then fucked Alex with it. Both he and the man doing this were panting hard.