DISCLAIMER: You are about to read a story that is strictly FAN FICTION and in no way represents true accounts. I do not - nor do I wish to imply that - I know Jake Gyllenhaal, his private life or his sexual preferences. This is also true of all other celebrities represented in this story. This is a work of fiction based in homo-eroticism, so if you are not of legal age, or if this type of content might offend you, please move onto something else.
For everyone else - ENJOY!
(And all rights are reserved, so please don't post this story or any part of it anywhere without asking me first. Thanks.) -------------------------------------------------------------------- So my attempt to get this out in a timely fashion wasn't as successful as I'd hoped - my new job has prevented me from having as much time to devote to it. But there's still much I plan on doing with this story, so just continue to be patient with me, and I'll continue to write the chapters.
As always, I continue to post sneak peeks on my group page and provide updates and info: http://groups.msn.com/TheGyllenhaalChronicles/_whatsnew .Plus, there are some very talented authors on there you should check-out as well, including Christopher, Christian and Stephen, all of whom have Jake stories on Nifty.
Drop me a line @ avymac@hotmail.com Let me know what you think - all feedback is appreciated - or just say `hey'.
Now onto PART 13 . . . --------------------------------------------------------------------
"Why Boston?" I asked.
"I have friends there that I haven't seen in awhile."
"Couldn't we just drive up to Jackson Hole for a few days? Stay in that cabin again?"
Eric pouted. Slumped down to lay his head in my lap. I instinctively ran my fingers through his hair. "I really want to go to Boston," he mumbled. "Before heading back to school."
I looked down at him, studying the facial features I never tired of - the deep-set brown eyes, the narrow Roman nose, the rigid jaw line. I sighed, my fingers stopping midway through his soft copper hair. "If you're that set on going," I sighed. "Then I guess we'll go."
His mouth turned up in a wide grin as he reached up and slid a hand down my cheek, rubbing the five o'clock shadow I had yet to shave. "I love you," he stated.
"I love you, too," I responded, attempting to lean down to kiss him, the position awkward . . .
I stared up at the ceiling, comforter and sheets tangled around my legs, Derry fast asleep at my feet, the morning air chilly, the fire dead in the wood-burning stove.
My head was throbbing. I threw an arm across my eyes, attempting to push the stark images away. I hated when I dreamt about Eric. Would have preferred never to think of him again. But he frequently managed to creep into my dreams, pervading my otherwise peaceful sleep, leaving me dwelling on things when I awoke.
Dark scenes of coercion and cruelty coursed through my mind - unwanted objects shoved up my ass, piss in my mouth, the humiliating voice of Eric saying, "Take it, Cooper. You know you fuckin' want it . . . Shit, Seth, get your whole fist up there . . . I wanna see his ass wide open . . ."
Groaning at the memory, I rolled over onto my side, wanting to puke. Wanting to punch something.
"You'll love these guys," Eric had assured me when first leading me up the front stoop of that two-story brownstone, swiftly pulling me into another world, shutting the door on reality.
I'd felt apprehension the instant I'd stepped foot into that front foyer - my senses sharp, my uneasiness palpable. But Eric had been convincing - insisting that everything would be fine - insisting that it would be a good time. And I'd been blinded by the deep feelings and unshakeable trust I'd had for him.
Suddenly feeling annoyed with myself over the vulnerability I still suffered over something that had occurred over eight months ago, I kicked the covers off, causing Derry to wake, and jumped from the bed. I headed into the bathroom to relieve my bladder, gazing absently at a spider climbing the edge of the medicine cabinet.
Boston had been the worst mistake of my life; next to the death of my father, the most disturbing experience I'd ever endured. I just wanted the memories to stop creeping into my senses. Wanted all recollection of Eric to dissolve once and for all.
Wanted Jake near me instead.
It had been exactly twenty-three days since we'd said goodbye to one another in Aspen. Despite the fact that we talked on the phone several times a day, the distance between us was tangible and aggravating. With work to keep us both occupied, we were able to sustain some semblance of sanity - but even so, it had grown increasingly difficult to keep the loneliness at bay.
Just a few more days . . . a few more days, and I'd be in L.A. The airline ticket had already been purchased, displayed on my nightstand, a visual reminder that the solitude would be ending soon. Occasionally, I took the ticket in hand like a starstruck idiot and examined the flight schedule, envisioning my arrival at LAX, finding Jake waiting there for me, his mouth creased in a wide smile, his blue eyes alight.
Despite knowing that I would see him soon, time passed way too slowly.
I flushed the toilet and exited the bathroom, hearing a knock at the door, soft yet persistent. Clad only in my boxers, I went to answer it. Katie was standing there.
"What?" I said gruffly, annoyed at her unexpected and uninvited arrival on my doorstep, reminded of Eric all over again and the grievance she'd put me through after I'd returned from Boston, needing consolation but finding only deep-rooted hatred in her.
Her expression was instantly indignant. Snotty. She pushed her way into the room, traipsing over to the couch in her laced-up combat boots, her hair in a tight braid running down her back. For once, she was simply dressed in baggy jeans and a faded red t-shirt.
"Don't you have school this morning?" I growled, shutting the door.
"I'm waiting for Chad," she retorted. Chad was her latest fling - the drummer in a garage band who sported long hair and drank too much.
I sat on my haunches before the wood-burning stove and shoved newspaper and kindling inside. After setting it alight, I stood, stretched and sauntered over to the kitchenette, scooping coffee into the maker, filling it with water. All the while, Katie just sat there.
I chose to go about my morning routine as usual - taking a quick shower, slipping into faded blue jeans and a gray long-sleeve henley shirt, pouring myself a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee. I took a seat at the table and threw open yesterday's newspaper, glancing at the headlines but not really reading them.
Katie stood up from the couch and slid into one of the empty chairs at the table. Her nearness perturbed me at that moment. "What do you want?" I said, not looking up from the paper.
I heard her leafing through the pages of something. "Just thought I'd stop in and say good morning," she claimed.
I knew she was lying; she hadn't wished me a simple good morning in a long time. I kept my eyes on the newspaper, scooping a bite of Raisin Bran into my mouth.
"Have you seen this?" she asked, shoving a magazine at me.
In irritation, I grabbed it and glanced down at the opened page. More tabloid crap. Then I saw the collage of Jake pictures - one of him skiing, one of him walking through the airport terminal, and one of he and I on horseback, gazing at one another, smiles crossing our faces. The caption beneath this particular photo read, "Jake and friend horseback-riding near Colorado ranch."
I was instantly puzzled. "How the hell did they know about the ranch?" I mumbled. To my knowledge, the only photographers I'd seen had been in Aspen.
"I don't know," Katie said, slumping back in the chair, crossing her arms. "But you should be careful. You don't want Jake's sudden bout of homosexuality splattered across the headlines."
I glanced up at her, knowing instantly the angle she was coming from: wanting to wedge a wall between Jake and me, hoping to destroy something she herself couldn't have.
Tossing the magazine back at her, I said, "The picture means nothing. It's just tabloid trash."
She scooped the magazine up into her arms and stood from the table. "All the same," she muttered. "This relationship could ruin a perfectly good career . . ."
My glare was frightening as I threw my spoon to the table. "Goddamn it, Katie, why are you always so hateful? It's really fucking annoying, and I just don't even want to hear it anymore. I'm not going to apologize for Eric, and I'm sure as hell not going to apologize for Jake." I took a breath, then pointed a finger at her and added, "YOU should be the one apologizing, Kat. For your inability to cope with anything. You should consider growing up . . . you're not a little kid anymore."
She crinkled her nose in irritation. "And I suppose you know everything, is that it? Oh wise one?"
I waved my hand through the air and said, "Just get out of here. Go to school."
But she stood her ground for a moment, glaring at me. Then she mumbled, "I hope you lose him. He deserves better than your queer ass." And with that, she stomped to the door and pulled it open. Came face-to-face with Doug, his hand in a fist as if preparing to knock.
"Hey," he said to her, grinning. "How's it going?"
She ignored him to throw a backwards glance at me. "Travis," she sneered, "your other boyfriend's here." Then she slipped past Doug and exited out the porch, practically running down the path towards the house.
Doug turned to watch her go, his expression bewildered. "What was that all about?" he inquired, finally stepping into the room and shutting the door.
I shook my head. "I don't know anymore," I replied. "She's like that girl from `The Exorcist'. Any day now her head's going to do a complete 360-degree turn."
Doug laughed and helped himself to a cup of coffee. Then he joined me, lounging back in a chair, propping a boot up onto the edge of the table. He took a few sips while watching me finish my now-soggy cereal, and then he said, "Ready for another day?"
I pushed my empty bowl aside and sat back. "I guess so," I sighed, apathy and anxiety gripping me at the same time. I didn't feel like working - didn't feel like dealing with anything - and yet immersing myself in hard labor was about the only way to forget about Katie and her bullshit.
Despite myself, apprehension was already creeping into my gut regarding the picture of Jake and me; I didn't want to be the cause of friction for him, and I didn't want him pulling away from me because of it. It was exactly the reaction Katie had hoped to elicit when presenting the magazine to me. Cruelty in its finest form.
"I should have taken a belt to her," I mumbled under my breath, my chair scraping against the floor as I stood up.
"What?" Doug said.
"Nothing." I pulled my boots on, slid into my fleece vest and shoved my Resistol on my head. "Let's get out of here," I commanded, heading for the door, refusing to waste another minute stressing over my sister's vindictiveness and the bitch she'd become.
It was the stench of burnt cowhide and the sound of bawling calves that lingered on in my head at the end of the day. Although familiar and expected, the pervasion was distracting - visions of calves being roped, wrestled, branded, vaccinated and ear-tagged against the backdrop of metal chutes constantly replaying in my mind like objects rolling on a factory assembly-line.
This year, my role was lead castrator - a job I didn't mind but also didn't analyze too closely. It was a task like none other; the feel of a sharp knife slicing off testicles. In the three days since we'd begun the roundup, I had already castrated eighty-three calves.
It was a grueling time, full of back-breaking work. But the extra hands helped tremendously; including Doug and Conway, we'd hired-on a total of six, which reduced the burden of tasks, making the cattle drive more bearable.
By the end of our third day, we were at The Eagle's Nest, sitting at scattered tables surrounding a small dance floor, guzzling down pitchers of beer. The bar was smoky and wretched - a typical small-town establishment offering cheap liquor, dreadful live music and a few frayed pool tables. The clientele was fairly wretched also: hicks, bikers and barflies; women dressed like whores and wearing far too much make-up. I couldn't recall why we'd started going there. Somehow, The Eagle's Nest had become our official watering hole - the place we frequented most when we wanted a beer.
The band that evening was performing nothing but Lynnard Skynnard tunes. I'd heard "Freebird" far too many times in my life already - was truly sick of it - but their rendition was beyond agonizing.
Sitting back in my chair, I tossed an occasional stale peanut at the stage, not really aiming for anyone - just wanting to express my boredom and annoyance. The lead singer, a man around fifty who was dressed in leather pants with beer gut hanging out, paid no attention to this, as if food sailing past him was no new occurrence, which I figured it probably wasn't.
Doug returned from the bar carrying a load of shot glasses, three of which he set down before me, three of which he kept for himself. He was dressed in a pair of loose-fitting carpenter jeans and a tight olive-green crewneck, the fabric accentuating the muscles of his chest and arms. After slumping down into the chair next to me, he shouted into my ear, "Jager Bombs!" then held one of the shot glasses up in a toast. "It's almost over, my friend! No more fucking cattle, and you can get the hell out of Colorado!"
He proceeded to slam the shot down, and I did the same, a jolt of lightning rushing through me. I shook my head, swallowing several times, and shouted, "What the hell was in that?"
He grinned. "Jagermeister and Red Bull. A shot with a kick. Now drink your other two, buddy, you gotta feel the full effect."
I did so and immediately felt my head spin. I'd already consumed several pints of beer, so the added alcohol made me that much more inebriated. Doug lit up a cigarette and offered me one, which I accepted, tipping my chair back to prop a boot up on the table.
"Hey, sunshine," a female voice crooned into my ear.
I glanced up to see Darlene, a bleach-blonde bimbo who frequented the bar and never seemed to get it through her head that I wasn't interested in girls. "Hey, Darlene," I said.
"Come dance with me," she insisted, tugging on my shirt, causing me to fall forward, the chair's four legs landing back down in a thud.
I rolled my eyes at Doug, who was already snickering at me. "Not right now," I told her, shouting over the din of the music.
Darlene leaned down, shoving her cleavage in my face, and said, "You're always puttin' me off, sugar. Don't you want to buy me a drink at least?"
I sighed, sucking on the cigarette, looking to Doug for assistance. But he seemed content to simply watch the interaction. I pulled out my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans and retrieved a five-dollar bill. "Here," I said, holding the money out to her. "Why don't you get yourself a drink. On me."
Her expression twisted from a smile to a frown, fuchsia lips pouting. But she didn't protest - simply snatched the five dollars from my fingers and sauntered off in search of another beau.
The Jager Bombs were kicking in; I could feel my heart racing, my head slightly spinning. I crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray, no longer desiring it, feeling a tinge of queasiness in my stomach.
I must have appeared slightly off-kilter, because Doug leaned in, touching my thigh under the table, and yelled, "You all right?"
I nodded. "Those shots were horrendous."
He chuckled. Kept his hand on my thigh, caressing it lightly. At that moment, I hardly noticed nor cared.
Just then, Curtis approached the table, half-empty beer pint in hand. Taking a seat across from me, he shouted, "How're you doing?"
"Fine!" I yelled.
He glanced at the empty shot glasses on the table and said, "Don't get all wasted. We still have a full day ahead of us tomorrow."
"When have you ever had to worry about that with me?" I responded, which was the absolute truth. I'd never let anyone down during roundup.
"Yeah. Okay." Curtis took a drink from his beer, leaning back in the chair. "We're gonna head out soon."
I nodded and stood up, suddenly needing to take a piss, already feeling unsteady on my feet and not happy about it. I headed to the rear of the bar, passing the pool tables, feeling out-of-focus, my head frothy. For whatever reason, the Jager shots had really gotten to me.
The bathroom was grubby and small: just two urinals, one stall, and a chipped-porcelain sink, piss stains on the floor, cigarette butts floating in the urinals. I unbuttoned my fly to urinate and wondered again why we frequented this place. Wondered why I had to endure hearing the house band perform a dreadful version of "Sweet Home Alabama". Wondered why I found myself humming along to it.
Then suddenly there was a hand on my ass, squeezing me. Startled, I glanced over my shoulder to find Doug behind me, his lips already finding my neck, his other hand sliding around to hold my still-pissing cock.
I moved aside and fumbled with my jeans, the need to urinate abruptly halted. Doug came at me again, planting a kiss upon my lips, guiding me backwards until we were in the stall together. Then he shut and locked the door and dropped to his knees. "Feed it to me, Cooper," he instructed, reaching for the button I had just clasped closed.
I pushed his hands away, losing my balance to fall backwards against the exposed plumbing of the toilet. "Get up, Doug," I commanded, feeling like I was shouting, my voice ringing in my ears. I tried to right myself, and Doug's hands were on me again, squeezing my dick through my jeans, bringing it to life despite my drunken state.
"Come on, come on," he demanded, finally prying me from the confines of my pants. "Give me that dick, Cooper. I fucking want it."
My head was reeling, the touch of a hand other than my own on my cock after so many weeks a truly exceptional feeling. Doug knew just how to give head the way I liked it, his lips wrapping around my head, his tongue darting across my piss-slit, his mouth drawing me in deeper and deeper, sending shockwaves of pleasure through me.
My body literally ached for the physical contact, my self-control quickly fading as Doug's eager mouth took me all the way in, his throat easily allowing the invasion, his fingers cupping my balls, the momentum of his sucking gaining with each passing second. I placed a hand on his head, touching the familiar feel of his short-cropped hair, gazing down at him, recalling similar times, similar circumstances, Doug always yielding to me, always giving me what I wanted. It felt good, it felt good, it felt so fucking good . . .
Then suddenly Jake's face came into view, blue eyes flashing, the vision jolting me awake and yanking me from my drunken trance. I immediately stepped back, sliding out of Doug's mouth, bracing a hand on the wall to keep from falling back on the toilet. "I can't do this," I panted, shocked by my protest, disbelieving my decision to cease the pleasure I had been craving for so long.
Doug sat back on his haunches, disbelieving me also.
"I'm sorry," I continued, shoving my dick back into my pants, re-buttoning the fly with shaking hands.
Doug peered at me inquisitively, then sighed. He stood up, placed his hands on his hips, and said, "Are you sure?"
I nodded, tucking my shirt in. "Yeah."
An awkward moment passed, both if us just standing there, Doug's position in front of the door preventing me from exiting. "I guess he really means a lot to you," he eventually spoke.
I nodded. "He does."
Again, we stood there for a moment. I heard the bathroom door open, the music grow louder and then wane as the door shut, voices speaking together at the urinals.
"Doug . . ." I said quietly. "Only a fool would pass up that mouth of yours. Truly. But right now . . . well . . . to put it bluntly, Jake means more to me than a blow job."
Doug looked at me for a moment as if calculating my words, and then with a chuckle he shook his head and said, "You're fucking nuts, Travis." Unexpectedly, he pulled me into a deep hug and whispered, "I wish you luck with this one, buddy," his words echoing what we both knew, the memory of Eric never lingering very far away.
His sentiment was touching. But I didn't want to begin a discussion about Eric, so I grabbed his hand and reached past him to unlock and push open the door. "Let's get out of here," I coaxed. "I'm starting to get claustrophobic." Which, at least partially, was true.
We exited the stall and bumped into two guys who'd entered the bathroom - a couple of bikers reeling on their feet, red-faced and completely drunk. An immediate tension filled the air. By the looks of them, I knew we weren't leaving the bathroom without confrontation. I released Doug's hand and stood in preparation to defend myself.
"What, you two takin' a shit together?" one of them slurred, dressed in a black leather vest and heavy boots, blonde scraggly hair reaching down to his shoulders.
"Just leaving, actually," Doug stated, stepping for the door but being blocked by the outstretched arm of the second guy, another biker dressed in full leather jacket, a blue bandana tied around a head of greasy black hair.
"I think Ross was right," he bellowed. "I think you two was takin' a shit together."
"Naw," Ross said, stumbling towards me, breath reeking. "I think they was in there fuckin' each other like a couple of fuckin' queer boys."
A moment passed.
And then, in a sudden whirlwind of fists and elbows and boots, the scuffle commenced, each of us lashing out, the sound of bone hitting flesh echoing throughout the small room.
The fight didn't last long. They never did. Unlike Hollywood films, it only took a handful of punches and kicks to end it. The two bikers stumbled from the room, fingers pressed to bloody noses and bruised ribs, curses streaming out from under heavy breath.
I leaned against the wall, hands on my knees, struggling to fill my lungs with sufficient oxygen. Doug was standing in a likewise position, covering his left eye with the palm of his hand, a trickle of blood escaping his lips.
After a moment, I righted myself and muttered, "You look like hell."
He winced. "You don't look much better yourself."
There was no mirror for me to view my reflection, but if the throbbing pain in my jaw was any indication, I'd end up with one hell of a bruise in a couple of hours.
"Shit . . ." I mumbled, grabbing a paper towel and shoving it at Doug. "Let's get out of here."
After pressing the paper towel to his mouth, Doug glanced at it briefly, noting the blood. Said, "Son of a bitch," before following me out.
We stepped back into the bar. It felt like re-entering hell - the loud music and smoke like an implacable wall of discomfort, my feet stumbling across the floor as I made my way towards our table, head fully throbbing now from the combination of alcohol and the blow to the face.
God, I fucking hated fights. Hated having to endure the resulting aches and pains of broken ribs, bloody noses and bruised knuckles that inevitably ensued. And I'd been in enough fights in my life to know that no one ever walked away a winner.
Curtis was the first to notice our condition, eyes darting between us. "What the hell . . .?" he demanded.
"Nothing," I barked impatiently. "Let's just get the fuck out of here."
Without waiting for a reply, I headed to the door and shoved it open, unconcerned with who was standing nearby, marching straight over to Curtis's old Suburban parked at the end of the lot.
The chilled night air soothed my bruised face. I inhaled deeply, leaning against the truck, hearing the muffled reverberations of the band performing inside the bar. After lighting a cigarette, I sucked on it for a moment, trying to settle down but finding it impossible to do, my drunken state adding an annoying element to my shitty mood. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.
Eventually, Doug, Curtis, Conway, and several others exited the bar, and I impatiently called out, "Come on!" dropping my cigarette to the ground and squashing it with the heel of my boot.
Curtis pulled out his keys and unlocked the doors, and I climbed all the way into the back, not wanting to talk to anyone or explain the onset of the fight, leaving that opportunity to Doug if he felt so inclined. My focus was to get home, get cleaned up, and climb into bed, forgetting about everything, thinking only about leaving the ranch in a couple of days and seeing Jake.
I was lying sideways across the bed, still fully clothed with only my boots kicked off. The room was dark and quiet, my mind drifting off into much-coveted sleep, when the sound of the telephone ringing jolted me back to life. I sat upright, somewhat disorientated, and scanned the room. Then, realizing what was happening, I scrambled for the cordless phone, pushing buttons in the dark, muttering, "Hello? What?"
A voice said, "Hey . . ." and my heart did a slight flip.
I sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through my hair. "Hey, yourself," I responded.
"Were you sleeping?"
"No . . ." Then, "Yes . . . I think."
Jake chuckled. "You think? You don't know?"
I groaned and rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. "I don't know much of anything right now."
Another chuckle. He said, "You okay?"
"Yeah . . ." I laid back on the bed, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. "I'm glad you called."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I had a shitty night."
"Why? What happened?"
"I got into a fight at the bar."
"You what?" he questioned. "Why?"
I realized that I'd placed myself in an awkward situation; telling Jake about the fight meant telling him about the incident with Doug, and although I wasn't feeling guilt about what had happened, it was the last thing I wanted to share with him. "Oh . . ." I muttered. "Just a biker. He was wasted. Wanted to pick a fight with someone."
"And it happened to be you?"
"Yeah."
"Did you win?" he asked.
"No," I replied. "Nobody won. But I've got a big bruise on the left side of my face to show for it."
"Aw shit, babe," he said disquietly. "I'm sorry."
Hearing him call me "babe" was endearing. I grinned in the darkness.
"So what are you up to?" I asked.
"Just lying here," he replied. "Thinking about you . . ."
"Mmm . . ." I rolled over onto my side, keeping the phone to my ear, and said, "You know I can't wait to be there. Wish I was there right now. You don't know how much."
"I feel the same way," he stated. Then, a little more quietly, he added, "I'm really fuckin' horny for you, Cooper. . ."
"You always are," I kidded, rolling over onto my back again, gazing at the moonlit shadows of elm tree branches swaying languidly across the ceiling.
"That's true," he agreed, rather somberly. ". . . Shit, I've done nothing but beat-off since leaving you."
"I know," I said. "We've had this discussion before. Both of us are in the same boat."
There was a moment of silence, the line crackling ever-so-softly. Then Jake muttered, "I'm really fucking hard for you right now . . . "
It was an aspect of conversation that we frequently drifted into, especially late at night when neither of us could sleep and the desire to be together was great.
I slid a hand down the waistband of my jeans, pushing through my boxers, eager to continue the discussion. "Tell me what you're thinking about," I prompted.
There was a pause. Then he replied, "Thinking about sucking that big dick of yours."
My fingers found my cock, wrapping around it, giving it a squeeze. "Yeah . . ."
"Wishing I was swallowing you," he continued. "Wishing I was tasting your sweet cum . . ."
"Mmm," I moaned. "I wish for that, too . . . Wish I was straddling above your face, pushing my dick deep inside your mouth . . ."
"Fuck, yeah," he panted.
I knew he was masturbating, just as I was. It was an exceptional experience - pretending to fuck across miles of telephone line and satellite signals.
I stood up, cupping the phone between my chin and shoulder, and shrugged out of my jeans and boxers. A chill immediately sailed through me, but the temperature was irrelevant to me at that moment. I laid back down and took my stiffening cock in hand once more, slowly stroking it.
"Your dick's so big," Jake continued. "So fucking big in my mouth . . ."
"Yeah, baby . . ." I muttered. "Swallow it . . . "
To an outsider, the conversation would have undoubtedly seemed comical. But to Jake and me, it was hotter than anything else in the whole world.
"Cooper," he muttered, breath growing heavier.
"Yeah . . ." I replied.
"I want you in my ass."
"Fuck . . ." My cock was fully hard now. I briefly moved the phone away from my ear to spit into the palm of my hand. Then I began to stroke myself more rapidly. "Open up for me," I panted, picturing his legs spreading, his asshole appearing, his fingers working their way inside, preparing the way for my cock.
Jake paused. And then said through cracked voice, "I'm ready, Cooper . . . Come shove that dick inside me."
I gripped the ridge of my head, imagining pushing through the opening of his tight hole, my cock sliding all the way in, enveloped by the warmth and constriction of his chute. I'd only had the opportunity to do it once, but the memory of his body - the way he'd groaned, the way he'd moved beneath me, the stark intensity of his eyes - all of those recollections flooded my thoughts, adding to the immense thrill of beating-off.
"Ummphh . . ." I moaned. Spat into my palm again and resumed masturbating, quickly gaining momentum. "Your ass feels so good, Jake. You're so fucking tight . . . Pull your legs back for me, I wanna push all the way inside you . . . deep inside you . . ."
He moaned something, but it was inaudible. I was close to ejaculating, my hand moving at a fevered pace now, sweat breaking out on my brow, my body burning hot. I wanted so desperately to actually be inside of him, thrusting my cock in and out of his asshole, watching the contortions on his face, seeing the lust in his blue eyes, feeling his hand grab the nape of my neck while his other hand worked to bring his own dick to orgasm.
Several minutes seemed to pass, the line crackling, my hand going and going, my eyes clamped shut. Then Jake gasped, "I'm . . .unnhhhh . . . " before his voice trailed off in a whimper.
I heard muffled grunting and knew that he was coming. This sent my own cock exploding, hot semen shooting up onto my belly, some of it landing on my chest, my mind clouding over, my hips bucking slightly.
Then the line fell silent except for the sound of our heavy breathing.
After a moment, Jake mumbled, "Holy Christ . . . I think that was the best one yet."
"Yeah . . ." I was trying to catch my breath, my heart racing, my fist still gripping my cock. "That was definitely good . . ."
"Two more days," he whispered. "Two more days and then you get my ass for real . . ."
"Shit," I grumbled. "You're gonna make me hard all over again . . ."
"So?" he protested. "We've got all night, Cooper."
I ran my fingers up the length of my chest, feeling the stickiness of my drying cum, reveling in the fantasy we were still sharing. "Okay . . ." I muttered softly. "But this time, I want your dick in my mouth, skull-fucking me . . ."
"Umpphhh," he whispered. "Open wide . . ."
The airplane descended through the clouds, and I gazed out the small window, catching scattered glimpses of city and ocean, my heart quickening at the sight. The woman seated next to me stated sarcastically, "Another beautiful day in L.A.," and I glanced at her, not sure how to respond.
She said nothing more, and ten minutes later we were on the ground, wheels thudding onto the runway, brakes pulling, my seat rumbling beneath me. Flying was one of my least favorites things, my ears always suffering with the change in air pressure, my thoughts drifting in and out of crash scenarios. But driving to California would have been too long of a trek - and time was definitely not something I wanted to waste any more of at that point.
As the plane taxied to the terminal, my palms became sweaty, my thoughts turning to Jake once more, the realization that I was going to see him again mind-boggling. I absently rubbed my palms against the fabric of my jeans, feeling anxiety creep in. Suddenly, very desperately, I needed to get off the plane.
But even as we came to a stop, we had to wait. The woman next to me immediately started bitching, complaining about this, that and everything else, most of which had nothing at all to do with the delay. I was as polite as I could be, nodding my head, mumbling things like, "Yes, ma'am, I know just what you mean," or "Oh, that's really terrible," until I thought I couldn't possibly take it any longer. And then the seatbelt sign finally switched off, and everyone jumped up, grabbing for carry-ons, bumping into one another, making a mad dash for the exit.
Despite my desperation to race off the plane, I decided to wait it out, allowing passengers to depart before me, realizing there was little advantage in joining the chaos. As I sat there, palms still sweaty, my leg nervously bouncing, my mind circled through various scenarios: What would Jake be wearing? Where would he be standing? What would he say? What would I say? Could we control the urge to tackle one another right then and there in the terminal? Would he consider disappearing into a bathroom stall with me for ten minutes . . .?
And suddenly the airplane was empty. Just me - and the flight attendant coming down the aisle. "Are you all right, sir?" she inquired as she neared me.
I snapped out of my daze and quickly moved from the seat, mumbling, "Yeah, thanks," feeling like an idiot.
She smiled and turned away, and I reached up into the overhead compartment to pull down my duffle bag. I strode down the aisle, my heart rate quickening. By the time I stepped from the plane, I was practically jogging, racing down the ramp at a fairly steady clip, the duffle bag banging against my leg.
I emerged into the terminal, my eyes immediately darting everywhere, searching for the face, the hair, the blue eyes - but disappointment washed over me as I realized that Jake wasn't there.
The let-down was tremendous, my heart sinking straight down into my boots.
I wasn't sure what to do. Maybe he was running late. Or maybe I'd given him the wrong information - the wrong time, the wrong flight, the wrong day. I tried to clear my head and think pragmatically, my mind sifting through possibilities.
I waited for awhile, leaning against a column, watching a million people pass by. But twenty minutes later, Jake still hadn't arrived, so I decided to take the initiative to find the baggage claim; if nothing else, retrieving my luggage would give me something to do besides worry.
I worked my way through the crowd, feeling entirely out of my element, hoping above all else not to get lost. Fortunately, I found my way and soon stood at the baggage carousel with the rest of the passengers from my flight, waiting for the luggage to roll in.
I wanted to curse myself for never getting that cell phone; I could have easily called Jake. And paging him was completely out-of-the-question. So I just stood there, watching as the carousel came to life with a loud bang, the conveyor belt spitting out a hundred suitcases, people pushing forward to intercept their luggage. I decided I would find a pay phone before leaving the airport. If Jake still couldn't be reached, I'd simply get a taxi and head to his house.
Then a familiar voice said, "Hey there, cowboy . . ." and I turned to find him, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts, sunglasses perched on his face, stubble covering his jaw, flip flops on his feet, a crooked grin covering his face.
"Hey there yourself," I smiled.
And suddenly the airport disappeared. It was just he and I, standing a few feet apart from one another, the energy between us electrifying. It had been a long time . . . a hell of a long time . . . and now we were together again. And my urge to tackle him was enormous. But I refrained - just as he did - and as my one small suitcase appeared on the carousel, I hoisted it up in one hand and said, "Let's go," feeling like running out of there as fast as my feet could carry me, Jake not hesitating to lead the way, no further words spoken between us until we were safely in his Mercedes.
And even then, we refrained from kissing each other, the possibility of paparazzi and onlookers too plausible to ignore.
As Jake pulled from the parking space, he casually slid a hand onto my thigh and said, "Welcome to L.A., Cooper."
To which I replied, "It's good to be here. Now hurry up and get me home, because the urge to grab you right now is overwhelming . . ."
------------------------------------------------------------------- Thanks to everyone - Terry, Christian, Christopher, Stephen, Drew, Tim, Ashton - and so many others who have been faithful in reading and providing feedback.
Reach me @ avymac@hotmail.com or chat with me: same MSN name / AIM `Avymac'. -------------------------------------------------------------------