Colin’s never flown first class before. Never had the money. Still doesn’t have the money, but he’s not paying for it. Coach was overbooked, but there was room in first class and he’d been the lucky one to get bumped up. Definitely not complaining, he thinks, swirling his wine. It’s even real glass.
The entertainment systems up here look better, too. Way better. The suckers in the back are stuck with regular old flat-screens, but up here they’ve got jacks and holo equipment. This almost makes up for having to make the long flight home without Aaron.
It makes sense, he supposes. After all, don’t want to spend the hols with your boyfriend’s family if you’re planning on dumping him; better to do it before. A month before, even, when your boyfriend is buying tickets and asking you how many days you think you can get off work. That is the perfect time to tell him you’ve been thinking about calling it off.
Well, fuck Aaron. He can stay in L.A., with its heat-wave December. Colin will take good old-fashioned Scottish snow any day.
He scratches at the still-healing jack behind his ear — Mum’s not gonna like that, but his hair’s long enough she might never notice — and pokes about with the options on the screen in front of him. The stewardess comes by then, asks him if he’d like another glass of wine. It’s complimentary, of course he will.
When she sees him flipping through the menu, she says, “We’ll be serving the first meal in about two hours, so feel free to take advantage of the holosystem.” She indicates a button on the wall of his cubicle. “You can slide the door here shut for privacy, too.”
He does when she’s gone, and fuck, but maybe springing for first class is worth it. Assuming you’ve got the dough in the first place, of course. Despite the thinness of the walls, he can’t hear a thing outside. The stewardess and the rest of the passengers might have disappeared for all he can tell.
There’s hundreds of films to choose from, new stuff and old, and he even finds they’ve got that one where he actually had a speaking role (even if it did get cut down to one line). Nothing sounds interesting, though, so he flips back to the main menu for a look at the more interactive options.
Games, games, games, he pages through the lists, … porn?
It’s a newer simulator than he’s got on his system at home, even. “‘Fully interactive,’” he reads, “‘choose from over fifty beautiful men and women’ … Don’t have to ask me twice.”
He jacks in, scrolls through the photos until a vaguely familiar and utterly fanciable bloke catches his eye. Colin wonders if these are real people or CG. If they’re actors then maybe that’s where Colin knows him from, but as he settles back and the program kicks in, he dismisses the idea. The guy solidifies in front of him, tall and fit, green eyes and artfully tousled hair, and looking so perfect Colin’s sure he can’t be real.
The airplane fades, or at least the real one does. The setting is still a plane, just a much more old-fashioned one, and Colin’s back in coach, wedged into a tiny seat barely wider than his arse. The person in front of him reclines nearly into Colin’s face and someone behind him has a kid who’s using the back of Colin’s seat for karate practise.
He can’t think of a worse way for a porno to start and he’s just about to pull the plug on it when there’s a hand on his arm and a voice in his ear saying, “God, they charge an arm and a leg for this?”
Colin glances over to see Mr Perfect smiling at him, and okay, yeah, maybe he won’t pull the plug just yet. “Tom,” Mr Perfect says, sticking out his hand. “I figured if we’re gonna be packed in here like sardines for the next few hours, we might as well,” his teeth are white and straight when he smiles, “get to know each other.”
The pause is obvious, but then, Colin reminds himself, this is porn. He grins back, hand lingering in Tom’s a bit longer than necessary. “I’m Colin.”
“Colin,” Tom breathes, leaning even closer. His hand is on Colin’s knee now, thumb rubbing over where the denim’s worn thin. “I think I know how we can pass the time …” And with that he’s standing, making his way up the aisle to the toilets. He pauses once, looking back over his shoulder to wink at Colin.
It’s harder for Colin to get up, what with the seat in front of him all the way back, but he manages somehow, and then he’s hurrying down the aisle after Tom. When he gets to the toilets, Tom is just stepping inside. He leaves the door unlocked and Colin waits a few minutes for a passing stewardess to leave, then joins him.
The toilet is even more crowded than their seats had been. Reaching around Colin, Tom slides the lock into place, grins at him as he grinds his cock into Colin’s hip. There’s not even room for anything other than this, but that’s more than okay with Colin.
He fumbles with Tom’s fly, pushes his jeans down around his thighs as Tom does the same with his. They’re skin to skin now, neither of them wearing pants, and Tom wraps his hand around both their cocks as Colin kisses him. He worms his hands between Tom and the sink, cupping his arse and squeezing, and Tom gasps into his mouth, lets out a needy little moan when Colin’s fingers brush his crack.
Suddenly it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough at all, and Tom seems to agree. He’s wriggling out of his jeans and spreading his legs, hopping up onto the ledge of the sink. “Lube?” Colin mutters, teeth scraping over Tom’s lower lip.
“Pocket,” Tom gasps out, and after much fumbling with Tom’s jeans, Colin manages to find it. He pops open the packet, working two fingers into Tom’s arse and then giving himself couple quick strokes to finish it off. It doesn’t seem like much, but it’s going to have to be enough, and Tom seems more than eager.
Tom’s jeans dangle from one ankle, his feet — one of them shoeless — braced on the edge of the sink as he leans back against the mirror. His hole is glistening, inviting, his cock curved up over his belly. His face is flushed, his tongue flicking out over his lips, and as Colin positions himself and works his way in, Tom makes these little noises that go straight to Colin’s cock.
Now he’s in and Tom’s clinging to him, legs wrapped around Colin’s waist. There’s not much room to move, just enough to rock back and forth into Tom’s slick, tight hole. Tom is whimpering into Colin’s mouth, scrabbling at his back, and Colin reaches between them, wraps his hand around Tom’s cock.
It only takes a few good strokes before Tom is coming and it feels so good, it pushes Colin over, too. He groans, fingers digging into Tom’s hip, and it feels like ages before he’s steady enough to pull out. Tom’s eyes are glazed and Colin can see himself in the mirror, looking much the same. Well-fucked. It’ll be obvious to the whole plane when they go back out there, but he doesn’t care.
He doesn’t have time to care, because the program is fading out, and when he blinks, the toilet is gone and Tom is gone. He’s back in his little cubicle and the only thing the same is he still feels well-fucked, doesn’t even care about the rapidly-cooling wet patch he can feel in his pants. At least it’s not gone through to his jeans, not much, anyway.
When he can finally move again, he pulls out the jack and slumps back against the seat in a half-doze, only to dream of Tom some more. Too bad he’s too good to be real, Colin thinks. Definitely worth wet pants for the rest of the flight.
A knock at the door interrupts his doze, the stewardess with his meal. He puts a movie on after that, and while he toys with the idea of another round of porn, he ends up playing games most of the time instead.
He gets up once, for a piss, and an open cubicle catches his eye on his way back to his seat. The guy inside is reading, frowning down at the page in concentration and not looking at Colin at all. Which is good, because Colin’s sure he must look like an idiot, slack-jawed and staring.
It’s Tom.
Colin scurries back to his seat and pulls the door shut, heart pounding. Is Tom an actor, then? Is that why he looked familiar? Or does he look familiar because Colin saw him in the airport before takeoff? What are the odds that he just happened to be on the same flight as a porn star whose film he watched on that very same flight? But if that’s not it, then what the hell’s going on?
Abandoning his game without even saving, he navigates back to the porn section, scrolls through until … there. That’s it. And now that he looks a bit closer, the program looks more than a little suspicious. “‘No actors,’” he reads. “No actors?” Frowning, he scrolls through till he comes to the fine print. “‘By using this program, you grant Erotica Enterprises, Inc. the right to use your likeness’ … I bloody well do not!”
The fasten seatbelts light blinks on just then, and a stewardess’s voice over the tannoy informs him they’re approaching Heathrow. Colin complies, but his head is spinning. Did he really shag this Tom, then? Or just someone with Tom’s face? Is someone shagging me right now?
He’s still trying to work it out when he shoulders his carry-on and shoves his way through the crowd of people streaming off the plane. Once in the terminal, he digs in his pocket for his PDA, looking up his ticket information to find out which gate he’s supposed to be at for his connecting flight to Glasgow.
“Sorry,” he mutters when he runs into someone, and he doesn’t know what prompts him to look up just then, but he does, right into the green eyes of Mr Tom Perfect.
Tom’s eyes go wide and he blurts, “Robert?”
His voice is different, Colin realises, and his accent’s English, not American. Shaking his head, Colin says, “Your name’s not really Tom, is it?”
“You’re Scottish,” Not Tom says, and then, “and it’s Jeremy.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “My name, I mean.”
“Colin.”
They stand there awkwardly for God knows how long until Colin says, “Erm. I’ve got,” he checks his PDA again, “a couple hours before my flight, do you want to … I mean, get a coffee. Or something?”
“Yeah,” Jeremy says quickly. “Yeah, I mean,” he grins suddenly, teeth as white and straight as before, “or something. Definitely.”
