Part 1 by Castgimp

I had been traveling almost continuously for three months. The fall was always my busiest season for travel. I had a job that caused me to spend most of September, October and November in airplanes and hotel rooms. It was the beginning of the third week in November and I was exhausted. I had just one more trip to go before I could call it quits. When my alarm clock went off at five in the morning, I felt as if I had just barely fallen asleep. I had been in my own bed only two nights, and now already it was time to head back to the airport. At least I had my departure routine down pat. I had packed my bag the night before, and in less than thirty minutes I was showered, shaved, and in the car balancing a hot cup of coffee as I navigated the still dark streets of my Philadelphia neighborhood toward the freeway entrance. My final trip of the season would take me to San Diego for a weeklong series of meetings. I would be staying in a resort hotel in La Jolla, which was not an unpleasant prospect. Still, all things considered, I would rather have stayed in bed, warm and snug beneath the covers. About an hour later, the sun having finally risen, I had parked my car in the economy lot, taken the shuttle bus to the airline terminal, and was standing in line to check my bag. It was a ritual I had completed dozens of times is the last several months, and one that I went through almost entirely unthinking and unaware, the familiarity of the task causing my own automatic pilot to take over. This time, however, I was startled out of my half-sleeping routine by an extraordinary sight. It was as if someone had yanked on a cord causing my head to snap back, my balls to contract, and my cock to engorge to a full and straining erection all in an instant. Crossing through the terminal was an arrestingly handsome young man. He was dark-haired, and appeared to be not more than about twenty-five. He wore tight blue jeans that hugged a deliciously narrow waist and a pair of strong muscled buttocks. His hair was cropped close in the back and around his ears, and he wore it slightly longer on top, a few unruly curls sticking up off his forehead and crown. His shoulders were broad, broader certainly than his narrow waist, and his forearms, sticking out from the rolled-up sleeves of a worn blue and red flannel shirt, were rippled with ridged hard muscles. His face was longer than it was round, and angular cheekbones and a ruddy complexion stood out as if in high relief against his dark eyes and the heavy dark stubble that made him look as if he had not shaved in two or three days. Slung over his shoulder was the leather strap of a green canvas rucksack that was tied shut at the top with heavy leather lacing. His back was erect and his shoulders sloped slightly forward as he moved himself smoothly and rapidly forward on a pair of wooden crutches. His left ankle was encased in a hard white plaster cast, which he held carefully up off the floor. He paused in front of the monitors that listed the arriving and departing flights. As he stopped, his weight shifted awkwardly on his crutches, his forward momentum carrying him farther and faster than he had judged, and he stumbled briefly. He had to move his crutches forward again quickly to catch himself. He grimaced, seemingly in pain as he staggered forward a few steps, his uninjured right foot finally bringing him to a full stop. The effort had caused his rucksack to slide down off his shoulder, and it hung now, swinging from the crook his elbow made where he bent his arm to support himself on his crutch. He shifted his weight again, taking both crutches in one hand and hopping again on his right foot while he maneuvered the pack back up onto his shoulder. He strained visibly, balancing precariously on one foot, desperate not to inadvertently set his weight down on his injured ankle. Even across the room I could see the sweat collecting on his brow as he worked to keep himself upright. As he stood still at last, searching the monitors for the right flight information, I could see his long elegant toes sticking out from the end of the white plaster cast. My already swollen cock strained painfully forward, jumping and twitching and starting to leak its own sweet warm lubricant. I was completely transfixed by the vision in front of me. He appeared to me as if in a waking dream, as if all of my fantasies ever since I was a kid had all been rolled up into one and then had suddenly come to life right before my eyes. My deepest instincts urged me to pick up my bag, get out of line, and follow him wherever he was going. My mind raced, and I began to calculate whether I could take a later flight and still get to my meeting on time. I considered the option of calling San Diego later in the day to say that I had suddenly become too ill to fly. In an instant I decided I would follow him, suddenly unable to imagine not being in his company. Just as I began to mentally assess what my options might be for getting out of the middle of the snaking line that I was in without causing a commotion, my dark-haired vision of injured manhood turned on his crutches and faced the sea of humanity waiting to check their bags. His eyes swept the crowded ticketing area, as if he were looking for someone he knew. Perhaps he was considering his chances of successfully navigating the check-in line with his crutches and bum ankle. By this time I was staring directly at him, transfixed, unable to help myself. Perhaps he could tell that I was staring at him. In any event, our eyes seemed to meet, and briefly lock, causing the sweeping motion of his head and neck to be interrupted as we held each other's gaze. I had started to smile, to acknowledge his eyes on mine when I was roughly jostled by the woman behind me, who, impatient that the line ahead of me had moved forward and I had not, had rammed her suitcase into the back of my knees to get my attention. I was startled out of my reverie, and instinctively reached down and grabbed my bag to move it forward on the floor, closing the gap between me and the next person in line. When I looked up, he was gone. I was immediately despondent, angry at myself for not making my move to follow him sooner, furious with the woman behind me for spoiling the one chance I might have had for finding perfect love. I scanned the crowded terminal feverishly for my man on crutches, unwilling to accept that he could have disappeared from view in the brief moment it took me to shift my belongings forward in line. I still considered leaving the line and racing around the airport looking for him. But I hadn't any idea in which direction he'd gone, and I had a flight to catch. Reason eventually overcame my erection, and I glumly made the decision to stay in line and not risk missing my flight to San Diego. "There will be other men on crutches," I told myself. "Not like him, there won't," was the only response I could muster. Once I'd finally made it to the counter, checked my bag, and secured my boarding pass, I considered finding a men's room stall in which I could jerk off and at least ease the empty ache that had enveloped my groin. I decided instead that I would rather savor the ache than assuage it, and found some slight consolation in the thought that at least I had a long six-hour flight ahead of me in which I could close my eyes and withdraw into the privacy of a long slow fantasy about my dark handsome stranger who carried his perfectly proportioned athlete's body so gracefully on his crutches. Given what amounted to nearly the entire day to work on my fantasy, I was certain that later that evening I would have the pent-up erotic energy to splatter the walls of my La Jolla hotel room with my own hot wet cum. I stopped for more coffee on my way to the gate, and picked up a paperback in the bookstore, in the event that my fantasy didn't carry me all the way to the West Coast. As I moved through the airport my eyes scanned the crowd continuously, hoping for a glimpse of the bobble of a man's shoulders and back being carried along on crutches. My search seemed to be in vain, however. Disappointed anew, I finally committed myself to getting on the plane without having seen him again. When I entered the gate area they had already completed the pre-boarding process and were beginning to board the rear of the aircraft. I had an aisle seat near the front, so I plunked myself down to wait. Boarding an airplane has always seemed to me to be a longer and less efficient process than it should be. Eventually they called my row number and I was able to board. I had to wait at the entrance to the plane while a fat lady unsuccessfully tried to wrestle her oversized bag into the crowded overhead compartment. Finally a flight attendant forcibly removed the bag from her possession and checked it through for her to San Diego, thus finally allowing me free passage to my seat. I moved through the first class section and down the narrow aisle toward my row number, watching the overhead space for an empty spot in which to safely put my laptop computer and my overcoat. Suddenly, for the second time that morning, someone yanked on that imaginary cord at the back of my head. When I looked down from my row number to my seat, sitting in the middle of the row was my dark crippled knight, his ankle cast gently resting on the floor under the seat ahead of him. Disabled by my instant erection, I fumbled my way awkwardly toward the seat next to him. "You don't look like you're going to be very comfortable traveling there in the middle like that," I observed helpfully as I finally sat down heavily in my seat, all the while trying to conceal the distortion in the front of my pants. "No," he replied." Ah, a man of few words, I thought to myself. There was no one yet in the window seat next to him. We were both fairly tall, and sitting next to each other now, our thighs unavoidably touched. I tried again to initiate conversation. "I can't believe they gave you that seat, of all the seats on the airplane," I ventured, once again stating the obvious for his benefit. "I was supposed to fly on Tuesday. That's when my ticket was for. But I couldn't. They squeezed me on to this flight. It's a full flight. This is all that was left." His breath was sweet and warm against my face as he spoke. His voice was nearly neutral, devoid of almost any regional accent save for the slightest southern slowness that caused him to draw out his words the tiniest fraction of an inch. "Would you like my aisle seat? Would that help?" The way we were sitting now, my right leg was touching his left leg. His white plaster cast rested under the seat ahead of him, next to where my own foot rested under the seat ahead of me. His ankle was close enough that I could imagine, later in the flight, rolling my shoeless foot slowly to the side and brushing up against his hard cast, and maybe even his naked toes. I could also imagine reaching down to untie my shoe and brushing his cast with my fingers, maybe touching his toes while he slept. I hated to give up that proximity to his injured ankle by switching seats, but it seemed like the right thing to do. "No. Thank-you kindly. I'm settled in here right now. And at least my ankle is protected under the seat here. I'd love to be able to stretch it out but I can't be sticking it out in the aisle. It'd be in the way. And people would knock into it. I don't want them running into it with those carts they run through here. That would hurt like hell." My cock throbbed, and I moved in my seat to try and rearrange the angle at which my erection was uncomfortably poking into my trousers. I took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye. "You in much pain?" His eyes grew big at my question, and a hint of a smile danced briefly over his face before he could compose himself. Then a serious strained look replaced the impish grin. "I'll say. It hurts like a sonofabitch." "What'd you do?" "I busted it." "Recently?" "Two days ago." I thought I was going to cum in my pants. "Two days ago? Shit! Should you be traveling?" "Probably not. But I'm overdue now. I'm posted in San Diego. I was due back Tuesday." "You in the military?" "Marines. Intelligence officer. Scott Norris." He reached his hand out toward me. "Scott. I'm Mark. Mark Weber. Pleased to meet you. I'm sorry about your ankle." His handshake was firm, but he didn't try to break my hand. As he let it go it seemed to me he had held my hand just a moment longer than an ordinary handshake would have required. "It's good to meet you as well. My ankle will mend, eventually, but thanks for your concern. I'll be good as new. In the meantime I guess you and I had better become friends. This is a long flight. Six hours." He was grinning now. "I don't remember it taking this long the last time I flew out here." "It's the jet stream. This time of year we fly into strong headwinds. Going the other direction this time of year it's only four and a half." Our conversation was interrupted by the sudden flickering to life of the overhead video monitors with the flight safety instructions. They had shut the doors to the aircraft and there was still no one seated in the window seat next to Scott. "Looks like I'm in luck," he said loudly, smiling, trying to make himself heard over the voice of the overhead sound system that was now describing the functioning of the emergency oxygen masks. "I think I'm sitting next to the only empty seat on the whole plane. Somebody must've missed their flight. If you don't mind I'm going to scoot over into this other seat before we take off. It'll give us both some extra room and I can stretch out my leg a bit." "Sure. Go ahead. That's great!" In fact I did mind. I wanted him to stay right where he was. I wanted our thighs to touch all the way to California. But he moved, sliding over into the window seat and stretching his left leg out under the middle seat. It wasn't a total loss, as I still had his broken ankle right next to my foot, and his lovely face was now just one seat away. Still, even that short distance inhibited our conversation. I tried unsuccessfully to pick up where we had left off before the safety video, but the roar of the engines as we taxied made it difficult to hear, and he seemed less interested in talking about his ankle than he had five minutes before. "How'd you break your ankle?" I inquired. "Oh, it's a long story," he shouted back, scrunching a pillow behind his head against the window and closing his eyes. Well, I thought, that's that. A very short love affair indeed. The way his leg and ankle now angled over toward me on the floor from the window seat, his foot and toes were actually more plainly visible to me than they had been before. I watched, entranced, as his naked toes curled and flexed involuntarily as he fell asleep. He was sleeping soundly, mouth open, head back, long before we crossed through ten thousand feet. I read for a while, but I was terribly distracted by Scott's physical presence next to me. I did reach down and loosen the laces on my shoes and in the process allowed my fingers to touch his cast. I pushed my fingers lightly against the part of the cast that covered the outside edge of his foot, and then ran my fingers back toward his heel. The plaster was hard and smooth, and cold. I was afraid to run my fingers the other way, toward his naked toes. I didn't know how soundly he was sleeping. I was pretty sure I could get away with touching the cast, but I was afraid I would get caught touching his toes. Eventually I closed my eyes, hoping I might be able to sleep, or at least peacefully fantasize about what my marine intelligence officer might look like with his clothes off and his toes in my mouth. I must have fallen asleep as well because the next thing I knew, I was being awakened by Scott, who was tapping me insistently on the shoulder. I opened my eyes, startled, thoroughly confused and disoriented. Scott was alternately reaching down toward the floor, groping for his ankle, and then reaching up to touch my shoulder again. He was squirming in his seat, and looking pleadingly into my eyes. He seemed to be trying to repress the soft moaning sound that was coming from his chest and throat. My first thought as I opened my eyes and tried to make sense of the scene was that the poor boy had to go to the bathroom. "I hate to bother you Mark, but I need your help!" I started to get up out of my seat to let him pass. He pulled me back down into my seat. "My ankle feels like it's about to explode man. I'm supposed to keep it elevated, to keep the swelling down. And I think flying like this makes it worse. I just woke up and it's throbbing like a sonofabitch. It really feels like it's going to explode. Even my fucking toes feel like they're going to pop!" He was rambling now, wild-eyed. He continued to reach for his broken ankle, as if touching it could somehow make it better. "I think all my blood must be in my ankle. I'm never going to make it all the way to San Diego like this. I knew flying was going to be bad, but I didn't know it was going to be this bad. You gotta help me Mark!" There was an urgency to his voice. I could tell he was both scared and in a great deal of pain. He kept screwing his eyes shut and opening them as he spoke. "A marine is supposed to be able to take a lot of pain. And I can. I took a lot of pain this week . . . but I can't . . . not this . . . not for four more hours . . ." I looked at my watch. We did indeed have just over four hours to go before we landed. I was still having a hard time making sense out of the situation or figuring out what I could do to help ease Scott's pain. "Do you want to get up and walk around? Would that help?" "No. I think that would make it worse. Besides, they've got my crutches up front in a closet. What I really need to do is get my ankle elevated. It needs to be up higher, off the floor, to reduce the swelling a little bit." Finally the light bulb went off in my head. "Would you like . . . I mean . . . why don't you swing your ankle up here? If we put this arm rest up, you can just stretch you leg out across the seat." I was patting my thigh as I spoke, almost as you might for a pet you were trying to convince to jump up into your lap. "Really? You don't mind? I mean, right in your lap?" "Sure. Right here. I don't mind." He seemed both relieved and surprised. I guess it is fair to say that we were both relieved and surprised. For me, of course, it was a fantasy come true. The idea of sitting for four hours on an airplane next to a hunky dark marine with his plaster-casted broken ankle sitting in my lap was rather more that I could have ever hoped for. It exceeded in both unlikeliness and sheer erotic volts any broken ankle fantasy I had concocted for myself in thirty-six years. Scott leaned forward and grabbed his left knee just above where his cast began, and gently pulled his leg, ankle and foot up and out from underneath the seat between us. He then deftly pivoted in his seat, moving his back against the airplane window and lifted his ankle up and out and over, holding it above my lap. Then he gently lowered the cast onto my waiting thighs, the heavy exaggerated ball of his heel fitting neatly into my crotch, nestled in the space defined by my inner thighs on the left and right, and my scrotum at the top. For the third time that day that cord was yanked from behind my head and blood shot into my cock as if hurled from a water cannon, and I was instantly, painfully erect. That meant in fact that his casted foot and ankle rested directly up against my hard cock and shrunken balls. Both of us seemed to be holding our breath, as if waiting to see what the outcome of this new arrangement might be. "Is that better?" I managed to stammer. "I think so. We'll see," he grunted through gritted teeth, fighting off what I imagined were waves of disabling pain. "This should help ease the throbbing a bit. How about you? Are you OK like this?" "Me? I'm fine." I was trying to act casual. I had no idea if he knew I was hard or not. I knew he couldn't feel my cock through his cast. Still, my pants were pretty distorted and full, and a casual visual inspection would have revealed my turgid condition to him. I was gripping the left armrest with my left hand, my fingers just inches from his long toes. Sticking up out of the cast now they did appear to be swollen, and slightly purple, and far sexier than anything I had ever imagined. My right hand and arm, however, I was holding up in the air, unsure where I could comfortably rest them. With the armrest up, and his leg and ankle slung across my waist, there was nowhere to place my arm except on his leg or ankle, and I was hesitant to do that uninvited. Just as I was calculating my options and staring at his left knee, which was covered by the scrunched denim of his rolled left pant leg, thinking that might be neutral territory, he spoke my name. "Mark." I was startled. When I looked up at him his face was covered in a huge grin. "You can put your arm down. It's OK. I've got my foot in your crotch, man, it hardly matters where you put your arm!" We both giggled nervously, and I did finally bring my arm down, resting my hand on the top edge of his cast, right where the hard outside edge gave way to the soft cotton padding beneath it. We both sat there in silence for a short while, absorbing the new dynamics. Overhead on the video monitors some inane movie was silently playing to a plane full of zombies wearing headsets. The cabin lights had been dimmed and most of the window shades had been pulled down, so there was a feel of evening travel in the cabin, despite the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon. Those who weren't watching the movie appeared to be dozing or reading. There wasn't much movement, and even the flight attendants seemed to have temporarily disappeared. I was still filled with disbelief over my good fortune. I couldn't believe that I wasn't dreaming, but the weight of Scott's cast in my lap and the feel of the hard cold plaster in my hand were both real enough. "Mark . . . " Scott whispered. "This is going to sound . . . I mean . . . I was wondering if . . Would you be willing to rub my toes?" "What?" I was taken aback once again by this strange new development. I couldn't be sure that I had heard him correctly. "This is probably way out of line. But I was wondering if you'd rub my toes. Just to help get the blood flowing. I would do it myself if I could but I can't reach. It would . . . they're so swollen, I think it would help." "Sure . . . I . . . sure." "Just gently. Just sort of massage 'em to help force the circulation a little bit." I moved both hands to his swollen long purplish toes that were sticking out from the end of the cast in my lap. With one hand I cupped his big toe, gently squeezing the pad underneath and moving my thumb in a circular motion over the bottom of the toe and down into the creased space between his toe and the ball of his foot. With the other hand I moved my thumb and two fingers over each toe, starting with his smallest toe on the outside. I rolled each toe slowly between my fingers, moving from one to the next, toward his long middle toe that stuck out further than the rest. His toes were warm, hot even, rather than cold as I had imagined. They were also soft underneath, and not callused or rough. He had two or three dark hairs that lay flat against the skin of each toe-- except his big toe, which had a larger tuft of long dark hair fanned out over its surface. As I gently rolled and squeezed his toes, Scott shut his eyes and rolled his head back against the window, moaning softly to himself. "Oh yeah. Oh yeah that feels good." At this point I was so aroused that I thought I might simply cum in my pants. The sound of Scott moaning and the sight of his broken ankle in my lap and the feel of his long naked toes in my hands were pushing me closer and closer every moment. My cock strained and jumped in my pants, leaking increasing amounts of wet warm honeyed precum. Unable or unwilling to exercise any rational judgment at this point, I moved one hand down onto his cast, right at the ankle joint, where the cast made a bend from his ankle to his foot, and slowly, slowly, gently, pulled the cast closer to me, pulling it deeper into my crotch. With my other hand I continued to massage his toes. My own breathing was becoming uneven, but Scott still had his eyes shut and his head rolled back, seemingly enjoying his toe massage to the fullest. Throwing caution to the wind, I pulled the cast even closer into me pressing my hard erect cock firmly up against the hard plaster. Slowly, cautiously, I began to shift my hips in my seat, bouncing ever so slightly, I hoped barely perceptibly, against his cast. The rumbling and vibrating of the plane helped exaggerate the sense of movement and friction. Strange as the sight of his ankle in my lap would have appeared to someone passing in the aisle, it would have been nearly impossible to tell that I was moving against him. Still, my cock was so hard, and I had been so aroused for so long, it was clear it wasn't going to take much at all to push me over the edge. I increased my rocking ever so slightly, and pulled his ankle cast even harder against me. Scott opened his eyes wide and lifted his head. "Are you fucking my broken ankle?" I froze, panicked. "Oh my god that is so HOT. Jesus that is the hottest thing I've ever seen. You're fucking my broken ankle on an goddamn airplane!" I resumed my rocking, less inhibited now. I was on the edge and about to explode. Scott grabbed the pillow from behind his head and stuffed it into his lap, burying his own crotch and bucking up into the pillow. "Oh fuck man," he whispered hoarsely, "fuck my broken ankle!" We both came at once, shooting into our pants, Scott squirming under the pillow he held against his jeans, while I shamelessly creamed my drawers against the hard plaster of his cast. We both sat silently for a few minutes, exhausted and embarrassed and basking in that post-cum glow. I could feel the jism seeping into my underwear and running in small rivulets over my hips. I wondered how I would ever get off the plane in San Diego. "You never did tell me how you broke your ankle," I grinned. "Oh man. It really is a long story." "Well," I said, looking at my watch, "we've still got more than three hours before we land." Part 2

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