Uncertain Arrival

I see him coming out of the passageway from the plane, another one sent to me from the Levant to acclimate to living in the States in exchange for pleasuring me. He's everything I had been told to expect: big. Tall, more than six and a half feet, I think, and thick of body but in a well-cut way, all power and muscle way. Big hands, big feet, bulging biceps, a T-shirt just bursting with chest muscle.

He isn't smiling; he looks tired. I worry what he'll think when he sees me; whether he hoped I'd be younger or as massive as he is. But then he sees me, obviously recognizing me from photos, and his face lights up in a broad grin. He's different from the last one, who was thin and serious, but who both beefed up and lightened up under my tutelage. I hoped this one wasn't as timid as the first. We lost so much time in the beginning, time that we both wished we had when we at last parted.

He wants to hug me when he reaches me, a bear hug, as if we are long-lost relatives. I grunt, as I realize that he's using the closeness as an excuse to take my hand and put it on his basket. He's ready for action, obviously, and wants me to know it. And I gasp at the size of him. He touches me unobtrusively, but intimately, as we move toward the baggage belts. On the escalator, he's close behind me and he reaches around me with a big hand and pushes his mitt up under my shirt and palms my belly. He's been instructed well. If I wasn't already melting, I would be now. My hand is trembling on the escalator's plastic handrail. My breath begins to become ragged. I'm not sure how I'll be able to wait until we get to the hotel, even though I selected one very close to the airport.

But I don't have to wait. At baggage claim, a message is flashing above the conveyor belts that the baggage has been delayed.

He asks me where the men's room is. I point to one and say I'll wait in case his bags appear, asking him what they look like. He smiles and tells me the bags can wait—that we can't fuck if I'm not in the men's room with him. He's said it in a conversational, natural tone. I glance around as surreptitiously as I can to see if anyone's heard what he said. No one seems to have; they are all chattering to each other, not zeroing in on any specific conversation other than their own. I flash him a warning look, and his eyes turn to those of a wounded teddy bear.

My knees are like rubber as we walk over to the men's room. What seemed so close a minute ago now seems miles away. Surely everyone we pass knows what we are going to do in there—or are thinking of doing. I'm not at all sure I can go through with this.

We reach the door to the men's room and I falter. But he just passes on beside me and through the door. So I follow. It's a large one, with the shiny steel-sided stalls in banks in a compartment behind the room with the urinals and wash basins.

He selects a stall nearly all the way at the end of the row and pulls me in with him and turns me and dives for my lips with his. His hands go to encase my buns and he pulls my package into his. I can feel the urging and heat of him. He smells like cedar and cinnamon, fresh from the Levant. He takes his hands back, but only long enough to unbuckle himself and open his fly and push his briefs down. Then they are back on my buns, but this time, I have unbuckled myself and my pants pull apart and sink down my legs as his hands go inside my briefs and encase me again, skin on skin. A long, fat finger is already reaching for my hole. He grinds my pelvis against his, and I arch back and moan, feeling my manhood against his, his a veritable throbbing club of readiness. My hands go to him and I gasp at his size and urgency. Big hands, big feet, gigantic penis—wanting me, just as I have wanted what he has to give me for months since at sent his predecessor away in this very airport.

He turns me roughly and makes me lean across the toilet, my legs spread on either side of the seat, my hand clutching at the tank top. My pants are stripped off and slung over my head onto the top of the tank top. I lay my cheek on top of the trousers and try not to cry out as he attacks my anus with his searching mouth and tongue and long, thick fingers. Then he's crouched over me and is entering me and entering me and entering. Thrusting and withdrawing and then thrusting again, deeper. Breathing heavily, both of us. We hear men, in conversation, entering the men's room. And my Lebanese lover lifts my legs off the floor, with strong hands under my thighs, helping me wedge my feet in the corners where the stall walls meet the back wall.

Crouching below me on massive thighs now, miles and miles of rock-hard, throbbing cock pointed straight up inside my hole. Lifting me and sinking me down on his possessing rod, finding every inch of me inside, stretching me, worrying my canal, coaxing it to expand for him, to take more of him in with each lifting and sinking. My legs have leverage against the wall now, none of me showing below the edge of the stall. One of his hands goes to my belly and the other to my throat just below my chin, pulling my head into his so that he can kiss my ears and cheeks and let me hear the sound of his pent-up need to fuck me. Me providing the piston action now with the stiffening and release of the tense in my leveraged legs. Me fucking myself on his gigantic tool now. Screaming and moaning in passion but only on the inside—I hope. Trying my best not to betray our exertions, my briefs stuffed inside my own mouth to aid my attempt at silence.

Then his hands are back on my hips now. Jack hammering me up and down, faster and faster, and pulling out farther with each movement and digging deeper with each thrust. He senses I am ready to shoot and then pulls me all the way down, the sensitive skin of my butt cheeks mashing his black, curly pubic hair. He holds for interminable seconds, slowly pulls me back up until I can feel his bulbous glans at my rim—and then a swift death—thrusting me down as he reaches over and flushes the toilet, masking at least partially my involuntary passioned cry of being taken totally as my ejaculate splatters against the cold steel of the toilet.

He comes then inside me as well in a drowning flood. The catch in his breath and slight whimper as he ejaculates tells me that he is mine as much as I am his.

He holds me there, nuzzling my neck with his lips. "How far to this hotel?" he whispers in my ear.

"Not far, not far at all," I whisper back in breathless voice.

"Good," he says. "I want to hear you scream out loud for it now."

I take charge as soon as we've redressed, even though I still feel like Jell-O inside. Telling him to wait a couple of minutes before joining me in baggage claim.

I keep my distance while the bags, at last, are arriving, and I manage to wrap myself in businesslike decorum, with a slightly stern look on my face. He's got that wounded teddy bear look again on his face, not sure if he's done something wrong. I want him on that edge at least until we get to the hotel. I make him carry the heaviest bags to the car and then make him sit in the backseat all the way to the hotel. I've already checked in, so we just breeze past reception, which is too busy to care about us anyway, and go up to the room.

I send him to the showers. He tries to apologize as he strips down, but I tell him just to go.

When he pads back out of the bathroom, stark naked and patting at his wet body with a fluffy towel, I am there, sitting on the end of the bed, legs and arms wide, a big smile on my face.

"Welcome to America," I say. "Come and get me."

"But . . . but . . ." he stammers, "You aren't mad with me? The car . . ."

"I couldn't trust myself with you in the front seat," I say.

And then he is upon me. No months of breaking down timidness with this one.