Science Fiction Story Free Fall

When I checked the posting board that Sunday to see my week's work, I was pleased to see that I would be sharing the Shuttle trip with Cyril Blanton. Cyril is one of the British auxillary members of the shuttle crews, and we always had, in his words, "a ripping good time" when we went up together.

Our mission was in its day front-page new; now we were old hat ever since the space station became operational. Even the shuttles had been shrunk in size, and I was now on call for a two-man model. Cyril and I were to rendezvous with an errant satellite, one of the English ones (which explained his presence), and fix it. As I met Cyril in the dressing room, he told me that he figured it was a bent antennae.

"Spending two million pounds sterling to drive a space lorry up for five minutes. I say, that's a waste of perfectly good time, eh, what? Why not send a crew over from the station, is what I'd like to know." he protested. I don't remember his exact words, being used to his English-isms, but that was close. I won't do it to you any more than I have to, I promise. Just remember when you read what follows that Cyril is English through and through. Every word of his shows it. I just may not quote him that way.

Cyril shucked his blue jeans and I again got to feeling horny watching him. Cyril may one day be a proper English gentleman, but these days he was a true hunk. Black straight hair and blue eyes on that elongated, square jaw, his eyes sparkling like twin sapphires. He was downright pretty, I jokingly told him once. I had hoped the conversation might lead somewhere, but he just laughed.

His body was very, very hairy. A solid coat down his chest and stomach, coating both arms and hands nearly solid. "My grandfather was a werewolf." he joked when someone mentioned it. His body was a typical astronaut's (astronauts have to stay in shape, or you get down-checked), nicely muscled, with swelling biceps that rippled when he moved, his abs lining his stomach accented by his hair, his chest muscled but flatter than mine. His nipples were lost in that hair somewhere, and his body wouldn't tell you where to look. I gulped, turned away, and got into my own jumpsuit.

We boarded the shuttle on the mark, and a bored checker read the countdown for us. I'll never quite get used to it, even though everyone else seemed to. That bone-crushing take- off, over three minutes of agony while the shuttle gets up to speeds of eight miles per second, and climbs to the 225,000 mile orbits of the geosynchronous satellites. Once we were up to speed, though, I checked our flight plan, and then saw to my dismay that we were below speed. We would make the rendevous (those satellites don't really move in that orbit, at least relative to us and the Earth), but were going to approach it slower than planned.

"Bloody hell." was Cyril's only comment. We had twelve hours to kill.

Fortunately, even the small shuttles are designed to let you stay up a while if necessary. Behind our pilot station was a sizeable room, a crew lounge. It had chess boards, sleeping stations (in free fall you don't need a mattress, just a place to strap in), food for two weeks, and so on. So once we learned how long we had to wait, we put the shuttle on automatic and went back to wait out the time.

Cyril and I exchanged off-color stories like we always did. I was used to "playing straight" around the other crew members; while officially the agency didn't care if you were gay, it could get sticky if they found out. My problem was, my best story was a strictly gay one. It was all I could think of. But how to tell the story without giving it away?

Best to change it so that one of the characters was a woman. I started in (it's a long story and an old one, I won't bore you with it here) and he was enjoying it. I enjoyed swapping stories because the English have a different sort of humor from ours; an old joke to us is a new one to them and vice versa.

Trouble was, I got confused in telling the story. I changed the sex of the wrong character half-way through, and ended up with a mess. When I got to the punchline, Cyril was looking at me very curiously, and I knew there was no way out for me.

"I guess you muffed it, eh, old fellow?" he kindly asked.

"I guess so." I was blushing bright red, I could feel.

"Don't worry about it, old chum. I couldn't care less who you sleep with. I've known about it for a year or more; have I been telling stories about you 'round the base?"

I was astonished. "You knew. I mean... How?"

Cyril laughed. "Old bean, my uncle is, what's your word, gay. I knew you were a pouf about the first time I met you, but I've gotten along with the poufs in my life."

"I'm not sure I like that word." I said hesitantly.

"What word?"

"Poof."

"Oh, pouf. I don't mean it badly, old chum. But if you wish, well, I won't say it."

"Okay." I said. "I'd appreciate it. Now, how about a game of chess. Your turn to take black."

We had a good argument about that, since it was really my turn to take the black pieces, and I felt better when it was over and I settled in to play a defensive game. Cyril's too good for me to even think about a gambit when he's got the initiative. I settled in, concentrating on the game, thank God, and played him to a stalemate, the best I could hope for with a player of Cyril's caliber. I only won occasionally, when I played white.

"Set 'em up again." Cyril said. "I need to hit the head."

He went into our tiny bathroom and I heard the fan turn on. In free fall, without the fan, you'd have no control of where your ejecta (NASA's word, not mine) would go. In other words, the shit's SUPPOSED to hit the fan, as it's so cogently put. There's a vaccuum for your urine, too.

I had the board set up when Cyril reappeared. He hadn't rezipped his jumpsuit any higher than his navel. "It's a bit hot here on the sunside." he commented. "I hope you don't mind."

Mind? Mind getting free looks at that hairy chest of his? I should say not! "Of course not. Get comfortable." I said.

Cyril did, and when he sat down, the jumpsuit bulged 'way open. More than it possibly could under gravity, it practically stood a foot out from his chest. But he acted like he didn't notice.

Well, I lost that game big time. Cyril got the initiative and kept it, mopping the board up with me. When he captured my king, I made a joke of it. "You brazen hussy, you were flaunting yourself at me just to win a game."

Cyril laughed more easily than any American man I've known. "Well, you win any way you can. Another game?"

"Sure, but it IS awful hot. Okay if I shuck this suit of mine?"

"Sure, go ahead." Cyril waved, and set up the board while I shucked my jumpsuit.

It's no easy thing, in free fall, to do ANYTHING! Your body gets to moving and before you know it, you're spinning faster and faster. I finished getting out of the suit, looked around, to find myself floating over Cyril's head.

"Give me a hand down." I asked Cyril, a common request in free fall. Cyril nodded, found me (with no up and down, it can be a chore finding someone even in the same room. Your mind rebels against the outrageousness of it all) and grabbed me by the elastic band of my briefs, yanked me down. I don't know how he did it, but I ended up sitting on his lap.

I know I blushed again, with Cyril's arms around me. He seemed so casual about it all, but I was sitting where I'd always wanted to sit, in my British companion's lap. Was that a boner I felt prodding my leg?

"Thanks. Let me go, now." I said.

"Why?" Cyril asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, haven't you ever heard the guys talking about free fall?"

"In the locker room?" Sure, I'd heard of the Null- Gravity Club, composed of those who had made love in free fall.

"Exactly." Cyril said. "It's got my curiosity up. And now that you don't have to hide from me, why don't we give it a go?"

Give it a go! "Damn, you've read my mind." I said, and reached to kiss him.

Cyril was my friend, let me emphasize here. If any other man on the fleet had tried this, I would have fought like an alley cat. But this was my best friend on the job. How do you refuse a good friend? I never have.

And besides, I'd heard the stories about how good it was. Were the men making a big deal out of it, knowing that most of us would never get the chance? After all, women were scarce, and those who were part of the team were often married to groundhogs. It was a rare combination that actually made love in free fall.

I was curious. And Cyril was a good friend. It was good enough to, as he said, give it a go.

We kissed, with Cyril unabashedly running his tongue into my mouth, tasting my teeth, playing jousting with my tongue. There was no embarrassment on his part. He had made up his mind, completely.

I ran my hands in, now finally getting to rub that man- fur on his chest and stomach, like I'd always wanted. It tickled him, but he didn't push me away. He just laughed, letting me reach in and all around him. Fur all over, that was Cyril all right.

Cyril gave us a little push and we went flying into the middle of the room, floating over the table. I managed to find his shoulders, and a stroke down and over pulled the jumpsuit from his body. It also set us spinning, him rising over me while I sank, continually. Only air friction would stop us, and that took time. But I could care less about what the room was doing. I wrapped my legs around Cyril's legs, and yanked the suit down, spinning us harder.

Cyril kicked then, and I grabbed hold of him while he kicked off the jumpsuit, killing our relative motion except for a slight left-ward spin. You always spun in free-fall; any movement would do it, unless you took it very slowly, but we weren't wanting to be slow about it.

I kissed him again, running my hands into his boxers, squeezing his tight buttocks with both hands. His hands found there way into my briefs, and we kissed while slowing spinning, a pin-wheel of male lust.

We fought off our tight jock straps (in free fall, you had to wear them or have the funny sensations of your balls floating around on you. Stimulating, but very uncomfortable over a long period of time) and I found myself floating away from Cyril. I tried to swim, but I just don't move that well in free fall. I was flailing around and Cyril, who's much better at it, grabbed me by one ankle.

"Steady, old bean." he said, and wafted his foot towards my face. Better than nothing, I grabbed hold of it and Cyril hunched toward me. I got the idea of what he was trying to do, pulled his foot upwards (relative to me, damn, the English language isn't set up for free fall) by raising my hand and arm. Cyril did the same, and I was rewarded by the sight of his erect cock floating near my face, the feel of his stubble brushing my cockhead as it slapped against his cheek.

The room was really spinning on us now, over a revolution a second. It didn't matter to me at the time, but my only clear field of vision was Cyril's crotch, the room rising over the side of his thigh at a dizzying pace.

I had trouble catching that beautiful, uncut cock of his; your body just hates free fall. Your ear's semicircular canals rebel against the lack of gravity; interpreting it as though you'd fallen off a cliff. Your intellect knows what's going on, but there's a primitive area of your mind that's still a raging beast; it knows you're falling and is screaming in the back of your skull.

I managed to catch his cock as it wafted past me on one of its revolutions (nine inches long, it was spinning around and around like a living thing, the head circling like the top part of a child's spinning top just before it stops spinning), and sucked hard to get it to stop spinning on me and bring it into my mouth.

Cyril had more foreskin than I'd ever seen; even erect, his cockhead was still buried inside it; but he kept his cock scrupulously clean. Some uncut men have a foul-smelling scum inside their foreskin because they don't clean it right, but Cyril's was as clean as it could be. I ran my tongue inside that sweet-tasting foreskin to fish at the cockhead with my tongue. I grabbed the shaft with one hand, holding on tight to him with the other.

I felt Cyril's mouth close on my cock. A beautiful, warm sensation. With no gravity, it was like my cock had slid into a wonderful, open space, surrounded by warm, moist lips that pulled on my shaft.

I thrust my head down onto his cock. I wanted all of that beautiful English dick of his. I pushed down until his cockhead was shoved down my throat, my nose buried in his ball sac, his balls gently wafting back and forth inside them to wash against my nose like flotsam in a wave.

Such an odd, wonderful feeling! I didn't even have to use that part of my body you use all the time to hold your head still on the neck, the legs didn't have to balance my weight to keep me still; things you learned as a baby and now do without thinking. I didn't have any demands on my body at all! My whole brain was allowed to concentrate on the act of making love, of enjoying Cyril's cock in my mouth and throat.

Too much sensation! Too much! My body sought release, and I felt my cock tense, harden, preparatory to shooting my load.

I groaned warningly, and Cyril responded by shoving my cock down his throat. He wanted it, all right! I erupted, my balls using all my spare energy to push the come out at what felt like an enormous velocity. Cyril gagged, choked, but held on until he had sucked down all of my man-juice.

Then I learned why, though he'd never made a sound up to that instant, I felt him shudder as he bucked, thrashed, shot his load into my mouth.

I pulled back so I could taste it. I wanted to taste my crewmate's come.

Like round balls in the null gravity, the come sprayed into me. I knew now why Cyril had gagged; the come was spherical, and hard to swallow like that. It was like swallowing whole grapes one after the other, with no room to breathe.

But this was my buddy, my best friend. I swallowed it hard and fast, and felt one errant glob splash against the side of my mouth, coating my teeth. The come diminished to smaller globes, and it was over.

I sucked at his cock, and felt the last glob slide down my throat like a huge amoeba or something, crawling of its own volition as it made its way to rejoin its comrades in my stomach.

We sucked on each other for a time, and finally Cyril let go and said, "That was a bit of all right, chum."

"You can say that again." I gasped. "Damn, I can see why the members of the Null Grav Club brag about it so much. I never felt anything like it."

"Well." Cyril said as he killed our relative motion for us, brought me over to a hand strap. He had an impish grin on his face. "We didn't exactly fuck, did we?"

"Huh? No, I guess not." I said, matching his grin. "Rest for a time, then you can send that cock of yours into my ass for me."

"That sounds good to me, chum." Cyril said, fishing out two tubes of food for us. "Eat up. You'll need all your strength by the time I'm through with you."

After we'd eaten, if you call squirting tubes shaped like toothpaste tubes full of food that doesn't taste much better than toothpaste into your mouths, I swung over and caught onto Cyril, wrapped my legs around him.

"Are you ready to go again?" I asked him. I felt his cock crawl into rigidity as it crept up between my legs. "I can see you are."

I kissed him hard as he let go of his strap, and we were again floating in mid-air. We kissed hard and long, and I tasted his mouth in all the ways I'd always wanted to. Cyril was such a gentle, kindly soul. I wanted to spend the rest of my life like this, floating here, kissing him.

We didn't have anything like lube on the shuttle; NASA doesn't assume you need it. But I was experienced in lovemaking, with my last lover (so recently we broke up and I couldn't even mourn out loud, but it had been a month and I was feeling better) and his huge cock that I felt competent to take Cyril's in me without lubrication. If he was gentle about it.

I needn't have worried, Cyril is such a gentle lover. He let me reach for his cock, cooperated without insistence as I guided it for my ass, worked it in slowly. His foreskin was a wonderful lubricant, the way it rolled around and made room for itself inside me.

After a time, Cyril's cock was buried in me all the way. That was when he took over, grabbing me by the shoulders underneath my armpits for all-important leverage.

We were spinning, of course, though not much. Cyril seemed to be moving without moving, to the right, to the right, around and around. It was a slow spin, though, like we were dancing together. And I felt him begin to fuck me, slowly and kindly, just like Cyril always was, without any abruptness. He was infinitely patient, like he would be fucking me for an eternity, so there was no rush at all.

His thrusts gave us another spin, in addition to his moving "right" he also seemed to be sinking beneath me, as though I was climbing onto him, onto him, onto him.

I locked my legs around him and he kept thrusting, now becoming imperious in his jabs into me, his body's passion taking over the gentle soul, turning him into an animal in rut.

I squirmed on top of him, to help the fuck, scooting back and forth on his stomach, sending his cock in deeper into me, out to almost losing the cock. He and I made wonderful love, being almost perfectly synchronous in our movements. Lovemaking like dancing, two figures in perfect harmony.

We started spinning even more. Each thrust seemed to spin us harder and harder. The entire world was a blur, all things moving in three directions at once. Air was flying past me, like we were falling, falling forever. Only Cyril and I were clear in my vision.

I saw his face contort as his orgasm approached him. I felt him humping at me with rash abandon as his body took over his mind, and he groaned, thrashed helplessly, only his cock moving in me, harder and faster, faster, and I felt his come shoot from him inside me, a load of his British come filling me full.

I moaned myself with the thought of my friend coming inside me. The thought was so overwhelming that my cock, floating in front of me and untouched, suddenly tightened, I was gripped with orgasm, and shot wads of spherical come into the air in front of us, to land on Cyril and me as the air and our movements brought us together.

My come landed everywhere, literally everywhere. Small globes were floating around us, to land where they would, on my face, on my back, on Cyril's clutching chest hairs, one landing on his lips to explode and grip them tightly.

Cyril licked his lips and I kissed him then, tasting his tongue coated with my come, our breath drawing ragged from us as our orgasms released us from their bondage.

I don't know how long we stayed there, floating and spinning like we were. It felt like hours, but I didn't want my ass to release his spent cock, and he didn't seem to want to withdraw it.

Eventually, Cyril cast a look at the mission clock. "Bloody hell." he broke loose from me and I looked. We had twenty-eight minutes to rendevous with the malfunctioning satellite, barely time to turn the shuttle into position and match velocities.

We didn't bother dressing (in space, who would see us?), but clambered into our couches as come-splattered as we were, to begin matching procedure.

Before I lost myself entirely in the maneuver, I looked over at Cyril. His face was sweat-covered, his usually neat hair in disarray. He looked back and me, and I felt a silly grin on my face.

"A damned shame we're going to have to keep quiet when the members of the Null-Grav Club start in bragging." I mused.

"Maybe." Cyril said. "But we're members, all right, just the same."

I turned to my task and gripped the control stick tightly. Like a cock in my hand, I guided it to its rendevous.

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written by anonymous