Winter lay over the runways of Martha's Vineyard Airport with the same hostility to human bones that nature visits upon those who troll her waters this time of year.
My charter customers at least had things to do in Martha's Vineyard, and warmer places there in which to do them. My anticipation of relief from these horrific conditions built inversely to the minutes remaining for our planned return flight to Bangor at 8:30 that evening. We'd passed the date on which even the FAA abandoned this island off Massachusetts' south coast, taking their "tower" with them, and leaving the airport as an "uncontrolled field" for those of us who had to come anyway.
Once Fall had marched this close to the gates of Winter, the weather and economic desolateness of the island conspired to turn one of Summer's busiest fields into the lonely exile I found myself in tonight.
The field had been hovering near minimums and the freezing level all day and from the look of it, and according to Flight Service, was going to remain that way till noon the next day. Except for the boy manning - or would it be more correct to say "man boying?" - the coffee shop, I was alone and certain to remain that way for another hour until my sheep returned from town and we could leave the island. Bangor was reporting 1200 ceilings and 3 miles visibility, so I had no doubt of our ability to return despite takeoff weather.
On a bench in the corridor outside the coffee shop, and in a posture mother told me never to adopt, I was stirred from these half-awake musings on today's dose of fate by a soft touch on my thigh.
"Sir, I'm closing now." My eyes opened, and focused on the well mounded button-fly of a pair of faded 501's. The occupant of this stimulating garment was without doubt connected to the hand that had just touched my thigh.
"I have to lock up the building, now," continued the boy from the coffee shop, who was trying to tell me that it was eight o-clock and what that entailed for my remaining in the posture mother told me never to adopt. With the tower gone, and commercial desks shut down for the season, this little building offered the only sustenance and company the airport could offer; and now, it would seem, that offer was to be temporarily withdrawn.
"Oh, hi there," I reacted loosely. "I guess I dropped off for a minute."
"Look," I continued, "I'm expecting my charter group to be here in about a half hour. I'll freeze in the plane, and can't run my air cooled engine for heat that long either. Any chance to staying here, and locking up after myself?"
I could tell from his response that he saw nothing but trouble for himself by granting my request. "Gee, that's really going to be impossible," he said. "I did it once, and don't want to go through that again." I chose not to ask him what that meant.
He was interrupted by the coffee shop phone, which turned out to be for me and from which I learned that my charter group was forced to remain in Edgartown till morning. Great. My choices: return now to Bangor and come back tomorrow? Stay in town, if I could get there? I took down the telephone number and said I'd get back to them when I figured out what I was going to do.
"You have another option," the boy said, having heard the general tenor of at least my part of the last conversation, and whose name he informed me was Kim.
"I stay here at the field. Got me some heated space in a small hangar at the end of the flight line, and you're welcome to put up with me till morning when the coffee shop reopens."
There was something indefinably arousing about my doubling up with the boy for the night which led me to consider my other known options as rather poor second choices. With only a moment's hesitation - secretly hoping his imagination played with the same images mine did - I said: "Done. It's a deal I can't pass up. Thanks, Kim."
As Kim went on to ask that I excuse the condition of his digs and such, my senses again took in the maleness that emanated from his young body. Young meaning early twenties, hardly a boy though in features and manner very much a boy. Apart from his age and tentatively presumed innocence, we were both about 5'9", 160 pounds, 32" waist, brown hair. Only time would tell (and I dearly hoped it would) whether my "6-1/2" uncut" specs compared favorably with those of my young host.
After the required telephone call to my customer, I rose from the posture my mother said I should never adopt, and followed Kim as he shut out the lights and locked the door.
The icy wind was 20 knots and gusting from the Sound to our south, making quite light indeed of our deficient clothing. We proceeded to walk the distance which this time of year was - as if a geophysical quirk of nature - longer than the same walk in summer. The wind almost made my eyes close; but with my head down I followed eyes-open the swaying the boy's tight butt-cheeks, packed firmly into his retreating 501's.
By the time we got halfway there, Kim yelled over the sound of the wind: "My balls have just about shrunk to peas in this cold." I did not answer right away, wondering if what I'd just heard was innocence or invitation. Assuming that nothing would be lost in assuming the latter...
"That I'd really like to see," I responded in calculated ambiguity but with iniquitous ulterior intent.
He half turned to me and smiled, his boyish features now thinly masking a raw sexuality that I now imagined as pulsing just below the surface of his jeans.
"You just might," he replied, turning and heading off in the direction of his quarters at a renewed pace.
I followed, my chilled eyes still fixating on the tight buttcheeks flexing in his Levi's. We stormed the unlocked hangar door and burst quickly inside to its welcome wave of warmth.
His quarters consisted of a single large space, insulated and snug but indecorous. A minimal assortment of furnishings had commandeered about half the space in the old hangar; all the "hangar-type" stuff had piled up in disorganized piles in other portions of the hangar space. A small room without door housed a small shower, itself without door, plus a sink and hopper - a veritable model of bare essentials.
"Humble, but home," Kim said, turning and grinning. "But mine for the winter." "Very humble," I agreed. He chuckled in a cute little boy way, and said: "Make yourself at home anyway."
"Do you really want me to act like I'm at home, Kim?" is asked. "If I did, I just might take you up on your offer."
"What offer?," he said quizzically. I did not respond, but sauntered off as if to perform an inspection of my quarters for the night.
"I have some beer in the fridge, but tonight tea would hit the spot for me," he said. "Want some?"
"Exactly what spot did you have in mind, Kim?," I retorted enigmatically. Catching on now to my humorous reference to his freeze-dried gonads, he laughed loudly, and said: "Oh yeah, I get it. Thaw my balls out in a cup of hot tea? Very good."
"If so, I'll join you for sure," I laughed.
As Kim proceeded to get tea, I sauntered about his tiny digs, then looked out over the frozen field. A light snow had begun to fall, and the field took on the appearance of the arctic. It was a good night to be inside and not airborne.
"As you can see, my accommodations are spartan. You can have the couch, which I don't really recommend; or you can share the mattress on the floor back there," as he pointed out the only obvious place of repose. In fact the "couch" looked like it had been had used - or abused - by many others before me, some of whom could (from its appearance) well have been members of the insect or rodent kingdoms.
"The mattress, please," I answered.
"Good choice," my young host replied, with the satisfied grin of one who'd predicted a response.
As he went about the business of putting some crackers, peanut butter, and tea on the small table, he said: "I have to get up disgustingly early on this job to open the coffee shop for the early arrivals, so I hope you don't mind if I retire early. You don't have to, though. I have some books and magazines over there," he said pointing to an indeterminate piece of furniture in the corner covered by a motley array of magazines. "And there's a radio. No TV, I'm afraid."
As I was rummaging through his "library," I blinked with enormous delight at coming upon a fairly recent copy of "Jock," which had all the earmarks of having served as my young host's most frequent reference material.
This is more like it, I thought. Perhaps my suspicions/desires were more grounded in fact than I had solid reasons to believe. I left the copy on top of the pile, calculating that he would notice my selection from his supply.
Water from the shower brought me back to the present, and turning I saw a pair of empty Levi's draped over one of the "kitchen" chairs. On top of the Levi's was a pair of white cotton briefs that he must have been wearing.
"You're welcome to take a shower too, if you want," he said. "There's plenty of hot water." I moved to a more favorable vantage point before answering. "Sure, sounds great. I could use one. Thanks." His body twisted clearly in the steam in the little room, but offering little to obstruct my view of his back and butt, now lathered in soap. I could feel the familiar quickening in my loins as I contemplated his taut male body, his buttocks like ripe melons.
"What did you say," he called, turning as he did, offering me now a full frontal view of his scrumptious 7"+ member. The scrotal sac from which it flaccidly protruded contained the very two objects of my affection which without doubt were larger than the peas to which he'd analogized them earlier.
"I said I'd love to take a shower before turning in. Thank you." I stood facing him transfixed by the view. Shutting off the water, he emerged unselfconsciously toweling his wavy brown hair, but leaving the full impact of his nakedness for me to savor.
Doffing my duds to follow him in the shower, I could not take my eyes off his 7+" cumtower wagging alluringly somewhere between flaccid and hard, causing my own member to stir.
When I emerged, I found Kim standing in a pair of clean white cotton briefs, his tumescent malemeat flaunting their design capacity. He had taken the copy of "Jock" and put it next the side of the mattress that I correctly interpreted to be his.
Another clean pair of briefs lay on the opposite site of the mattress. "I knew you didn't come prepared for an overnight, so I left you a change of underwear for after your shower," he said. With a grunt of appreciation and a casualness which betrayed the reality of my arousal, I quickly slipped the boy's white cotton cock-pit over my enlarged cock and balls. From the corner of my eye, the boy lying on the mattress watched as I adjusted my cock, which was still barely at the point where it could bend down into the pouch.
"I like your choice of bedtime reading," I mumbled.
"It gets lonely here this time of year," he mildly responded. "Sometimes this is all I have to, you know, get off as the need arises." He was lying down now, the front of his briefs tented beneath the open magazine that he held in his right hand, in apparent testimony that more just the need had now arisen for the boy.
"I might need it too before long," I said suggestively, "if I keep getting stranded at deserted airports by my sheep too often." And after the briefest of pauses, I continued: "But it's not often I get to share a young man's bed and underpants."
The conversation wound uneasily down, and while my young host studied Jock's print and pricks, my eyes did a further review of my immediate surroundings. His place was the very model of clutter, with supplies and clothes strewn about in no obvious order.
Closer to my position on the mattress, and just a bit behind it on the floor, I saw a pair of discarded briefs. On closer inspection - something I always have the urge to do with boys' briefs filled or otherwise - I saw something that pushed my nascent erection to full flower. Lying carelessly within the folds of the briefs was a used condom, draped indecorously over the waistband.
The boy was now engrossed in "Jock," and by turning on my side, back to him, I was able to reach over inconspicuously and pull both briefs and cumbag close to the edge of the mattress. Judging from the enlarged mound on the front of his briefs "Jock" had efficiently served its intended purpose of getting the boy up.
With a fluid move of my right hand, I smoothly reached out and pulled the cumbag in. It had been knotted after its use, and captured inside was what for all the world looked like a week's supply of the boy's semen, presumable a tangible token of "Jock's" earlier success. Without too much trouble I unknotted it, exposing its creamy contents to my waiting senses.
Holding the now open condom close to my nose, I was intoxicated by the musky odor of the boy's spunk, which had to have been recently produced. I slipped a finger into his boycream, withdrawing enough to rub between two fingers before inserting my fingers into my waiting mouth for the full taste test.
My mind was convulsing with desire for more of this wonderful substance, and more of the hot young male body that produced and ejaculated it. From all surface appearances his semen supply was now in rapid-rebuild mode, the boy's hand now unconsciously resting on the pubic ridge beneath his cock, his fingers gently flexing his mons pubis.
Regrettably my fantasies outdistanced my young host's capacity for remaining awake, and by the time I was about to explore further conversation of our body parts and their operational parameters, he'd fallen asleep.
"Jock" lay on the floor next to him; and though sleeping his erection continued unabated. I was free, at least, to turn for a more direct inspection of the boy's body.
His torso displayed the muscle tightness of youth, his brief's 32" waistband clinging snugly to his firm abdomen. His legs had a light growth of hair, but were sinewy and lean. His face and mop of wavy brown hair were carryovers from his teens, and the overall impact of his body was electrifying and erotic.
I shut the light off, but the glow of a field light coming through the window offered enough illumination for me to lean over the boy's body and squeeze out the contents of the latex reservoir onto the fly of his briefs.
I could see that he was still erect, and covered with his own sperm now gave off the appearance and odor of a guy that just ejaculated. He did not wake, however.
I slipped my left hand to where it rested on his cum-wet bulge, and my fingers began slowly and softly massaging his balls and cock.
Still asleep, he stirred involuntarily with the pleasure this must have caused, and as his own right hand moved up to his crotch I delicately withdrew mine in order to leave the honors to him. He writhed a bit under his own hand, as I prepared myself for the delicacy of watching this hot boy masturbate on the other side of consciousness.
His limbs jerked, and he suddenly awoke with a start.
"You OK, I asked? After a slight pause,...
"What? Oh yeah, I'm...I'm OK." Pause. "Must have... have fallen off, huh?" "Yup," I concurred. I could see his hands exploring in front.
"Geeze," he said, "I think I had an accident," still fondling the wetness in his crotch.
"From what I saw, Kim, I wouldn't say it was an accident. Looked to my like you really knew what you were doing. And frankly I enjoyed every minute of it. My only regret is that you didn't make better use of your second hand," I said fondling my own cock-pit.
"You saw me?" he said.
"Hard not to, guy. Hey, when you gotta shoot you gotta shoot, right? You had a full load and it wanted out. Perfectly natural. Don't feel bad." I kept on stroking myself, as if to reassure him that masturbating is as natural as eating, breathing, and sleeping.
"I don't understand this at all," he went on. "I never felt myself cumming, and even now I'm hard as a rock like I still have a full load."
"Maybe there's more down there where that came from, and you need a second shot. I might even be able to help you out in that department," as I reached over and cupped the pouch of his semen saturated underpants.
It was a move that risked all, but proved to timed just right. He lay there, letting me softly massage the front of his briefs and his capacious body parts beneath, and began to moan as my fingers did the walking over and around his moist crotch.
While my hand pleasured his aroused young male body, my imagination was masturbating myself. Moving closer to him, I slipped my had down to the inside of his thighs, and my lips to the front of his briefs, hungry now for the taste of his boycream.
His moaned louder, his penis throbbing between my lips as I took the top of his cotton covered dickhead into my mouth. His cock and my mouth waltzed in a tantalizing sexual duet, his breath and chest now pulsating in sync with his approaching climax.
From somewhere deep within that part of the human male from which sexual pleasure spreads, I could feel the boy's body begin to quiver at the very edge of ecstacy. His first, but cumless, convulsive jerk was soon following by a series of trembling wet thrusts of his cock, ejaculating his body's full supply of male sexual fluids to my still sucking mouth. The flow of his semen seemed endless, but slowly stopped as his quickened breathing subsided.
I continued to suck the sweet musky wetness from the front of his underpants, and he continued to let me. At such times I found effective communications to be tacit and tactile, and that words bring too much logic into play.
We lay there for only a short time, my face still resting on his wetness.
"That was awesome," he said. "I haven't been serviced like that for a very long time, and it felt real good. Thanks."
"My pleasure," I retorted, meaning both words.
There was a brief moment of stillness and quiet, then his hand migrated to my own bulging crotch, and he said: "How do my briefs fit you? Are they comfortable?" He moved the palm of his right hand in sensual circles over the white cotton covering my erection.
"Fit me like a glove," I responded, now resting my own hand on top of his as he continued the tour of his briefs on my body.
We kept this up for as long as I could restrain the forces which would bring me to a convulsive climax. Lifting my body, I turned over facing and straddling Kim, positioning my penis directly above the fly of his saturated briefs. I pulled my cock out through the fly of my (his) briefs, and into the boy's own wet fly. So coupled, I began to hump his torso, while his hands wrapped around my buttcheeks to support me in my efforts. Our two briefs were one now. My engorged penis rode through two flys for the glory that was promised inside the boy's underpants, seeking the friction of his moist pubic ridge.
His own hardness returned, and our two penises gyrated as one inside his briefs as we held our release till we both knew the edge had been reached.
Almost intuitively we leaped forward together over the edge of ecstacy in perfect unison, our cocks ejaculating our malemilk into the musky cotton cavern housing the boy's magnificent genitals.
Spent, we lay there in a moment of dreamlike repose. My briefs were still dry, the boy's dripping from three separate injections of boy cream, two of them his own.
"Are you always able to cum three times?" I asked.
"Only when I have company," he responded, "that knows how to follow the clues." he said, "and then knows what to do when those clues lead him to forbidden fruit." He turned and smiled, first looking at "Jock," then at the empty condom lying on the floor next where I lay, then at me. I felt like a mouse drawn by cheese, but instead of finding a trap was instead invited to the feast.
Our sexual energies were spent. Our bodies at last succumbed the their need for rest and retreated to explore our separate dreamscapes alone. And as is so often the case, those who share our conscious lives make sudden and exciting appearances in our land of dreams.
When I awoke, I was vaguely aware that the winter chill lay still heavily over the field; but he had gotten up and out early as he said. I rubbed my eyes, and rose from the posture that mother said was all right for me to adopt, only to notice as I twisted that my cockhead felt cold and wet.
Looking down, I saw the front of my (the boy's) briefs I was wearing saturated in what was unquestionably cum. The only question remaining - whose?
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