Noah's Starship Ch. 14

At first I told him no. I told him my father was expecting me. I made various excuses, but he kept his hand on me as though I had no choice. I followed him.

We made it to the locker room, it was brand new as the university had recently invested in its sports facilities. This was the prize team of the small college town. Like Iran, soccer was one thing everyone could get behind. It had lots of small areas, pods, with 8 lockers, two benches, and a shared shower for each.

Aaron and I went to his locker which was away from the other guys. I hadn't thought to bring clothes, but we were nearly equal physically and he assured me he had extra clothes. I shed my kit and then heard him complain about a cut on his toe.

I turned to see what he was talking about He had taken off his shirt and pushed off his shorts. He put one foot up on the bench to examine it. He had on a white jockstrap that left his ass exposed and spread open as he bent forward.

His cheeks parted and I saw something that would change me forever. His cheeks were milky white, hairless, and framed a tight, pink hole. I was fascinated by it. I hadn't seen one before and it interested me.

"See? I think that's what kept me from getting a solid kick the last time," Aaron said, but I wasn't paying attention.

He turned to see what I was up to, and then a look of awe cloaked his face.

"Woah, uh..." he said and raised up from the bench. I felt my cheeks blush deeply. I thought he was in shock from watching me check out his bum, but that wasn't it. He turned towards me and took a step to the side as he stared at my cock.

"That's um... I mean... I'm not a poof or anything, but... Christ! That's the biggest one I've ever seen," he whispered so the other guys wouldn't hear us. They were all off in other parts though, joking and laughing loudly.

"My? Oh... yeah?" I asked as it dawned on me what he was referring to. I looked down at my cock. It wasn't hard, but it wasn't entirely soft.

"Fuck, that's a big un," he noted as he slid off his jockstrap.

I looked down at his as it rested politely between his thighs. It looked pale, like it hadn't been outside in a while. It was curiously small, but cute. It seemed right for him. I didn't respond. I turned back towards the empty locker to hide my smile. I stuffed my clothes in there and we made our way into the showers. We showered back to back, but I caught his eyes on me a few times. It was different after that. His looks were less eye to eye and more eye to crotch.

We hung out a lot after that, and he invited me to his house. He lived near campus with his parents, but they were out a lot. The very first time I went we headed straight for his room. He tried to entertain me with his video games and his football posters, but an unspoken need hung over us.

It started as just touching, he'd pull on my arm or try to put me in a headlock. I wrestled my way out quickly and then pinned him face up into my armpit. It was an awkward hold, he could have slipped away. But he didn't. He put his nose into it and inhaled. It freaked me out and I pulled away.

And then he came for me. He pushed me back against his bed and then landed on top of me. He pushed my arms up and tried to pin them above my head, but I had army training from the age of 14. I quickly pushed him up and flipped him over onto his back. I pounced on him and pushed his arms up as he had tried to do to me.

I stared at him as I easily held his arms above his head with just one hand. He wasn't fighting. His soft, green eyes stared up at me with eager anticipation. He had a look of submission.

I don't know what came over me, but I leaned down and put my nose to his. I bored my dark eyes into his greens and stared him down. I felt his lips pucker up against mine. I wasn't caught off guard by it. I wanted it. It was his only small movement on his otherwise still body.

I reciprocated. My lips wrestled his into submission and instinctively his legs spread out and wrapped around my waist. I lowered myself against him until my hardening cock nuzzled in between his cheeks.

That first day we just touched, he was fascinated by my cock and kept begging to suck it. It seemed too far to go with another guy, but I eventually gave in. His lips kissed up my shaft and then he lapped at my tip with his tongue.

It was the first time I'd had someone do that and he would later confess that it was his first time as well. He kept stroking the shaft and lapping at the head until something inside me took over. I put my hand on his head, slid my fingers through his thick shock of light hair. I gripped it between my fingers and guided his lips up and over the tip.

His eyes flashed up at me to show his eagerness to learn as I guided him down. He slurped the underside with his tongue as the roof of his mouth rubbed the head. I started to force him farther until he gagged, tried to pull away. I let him go, but after a quick recovery he wanted more. It didn't take long and I shot down his throat. He coughed hard as he tried to either get it to go down or come back up. I had coated his throat. I was lodged there like the lump he produced in mine.

After that first time, I warned him when I was about to shoot. He'd take his mouth away and jerk me off until I shot over his face and my stomach. He loved to play with it and compare our cum. Mine was thicker, heavier. He'd always taste it and pretend not to like it.

As the days wore on, we went further until I finally seeded him. He was my first hole to fill and my first heart to love.

He worried so much that we would be found out, we both did. His parents, like mine, would never accept that he could be with a man and certainly not one like me. His culture, his friends, everything would reject him. We usually had an hour or so before his parents came home from work. We did things quietly, behind locked doors, and began to avoid each other off the field or outside of his room. I never said much to his parents.

They didn't offer me dinner or ask me questions. I was the brown boy, the foreigner. Aaron didn't want to bridge that. He said they weren't worth getting to know.

And then we left. My father finished his assignment, transferred all of the work back to the waiting labs in Iran, and we headed home. I never went to say goodbye to Aaron. He knew I was leaving and our last night was spent together in his room holding each other and kissing while making stupid promises we both knew could never be fulfilled.

I was brave all the way to the airplane, but once we were home I locked myself in my room and cried for hours. I missed every part of him, every inch of his smooth, pale skin. I missed his laugh and the way he begged me to fuck him, but that part of my life was over.

It was a test from Allah, and I failed. I gave in to the temptations. The heartbreak, the deep ache I felt for him, was my punishment. I put it aside and forced myself to be disciplined. I was called out with my army unit to patrol in the border areas, and I used the time away from family to get my body in shape, my head focused, and my heart towards Allah. I would never again go down that path and be burned by the fires of lust. I even stopped working on my English.

When I was accepted to several international universities, my father begged me to go back to the UK. He had studied there and loved the culture, the people, even the dreary weather. He was eager for family trips to visit me there. But I couldn't. I had decided to be faithful to Allah and prove that it was a one time thing with an abnormally beautiful boy. I couldn't be exposed to the situation again.

I thought things in America; land of guns, fast cars, fast food, loud people; would hold fewer boys who could be weak with each other.

But it wasn't. It was a buffet of boys like Aaron.

I found myself in Los Angeles, a city full of blonde boys with pale skin and light eyes. None were as handsome or sweet as Aaron though. I met boy after boy and tried to recreate what I'd had with him, but nothing fit just right. No one was comparable.

Here they saw me as a fetish, a hot masculine Persian guy who could seed their holes roughly with his sword. I conformed to what they wanted. I was mean, arrogant, abrasive. I took what I wanted from them and then moved on to the next when they got too clingy. I had stopped looking for love.

I gave up hope that an American Aaron could exist. A good, kind, pure soul who electrified me like Aaron was not a possibility. I would fuck every guy who begged for it until I got it out of my system. Then I would go home to Iran and become a family man.

And then I met Noah.

Noah wasn't quite like Aaron either. He had Aaron's eyes, but they were wider, attracted more admirers though Noah rarely noticed. He had Aaron's milky skin, but was less sturdy and bulky. He had Aaron's smile, but with fuller lips that begged to be kissed. He had Aaron's warmth and kindness, but was quieter, more reserved.

Noah's beauty, inside and out, made the heartache I felt at Aaron's loss seem worthwhile, necessary.

The first few times we talked I sensed he was afraid of me. He wasn't turned on by the arrogant abrasive Persian, but he didn't pull away either. Like Aaron, his instincts for a stronger man drew him in. He persisted. It's like he was waiting to find the real me. He knew this was an act and waited patiently for me to drop it.

The day we shared a bench and took a picture with my friends. He was snuggled into my side, under my arm. I touched him; he felt like Aaron. Yet he electrified me in a different way. His skin was softer, untouched by harsh expectations. Aaron had known sports, competition, wrestling. Noah had never fought to be accepted. He knew only of kindness, sweetness, peace. He fit me. He was the one.

I smelled the soap from the back of his neck and it brought back a rush of memories. Afternoons spent with Aaron in his bed wrestling until we fucked, showers in the locker room where we tried to see who could get more tugs on the other's cock (He always won that because mine was so much larger and easier to grab), late nights sharing a small twin bed under a blanket so the world couldn't see us hopelessly embraced in each other's' arms.

He had the base of Aaron's scent, but Noah smelled fresher, sweeter. He had an innocence to him, a boy who had never seen war, never had pressure to fit a mold or be someone other than who he was. He was good, honest, innocent, and pure, like a flower growing wild in an untouched valley. He was the type of mate my parents would have chosen for me, except for his gender. The more time I spent with him, the more it felt wrong to be without him.

And then I hurt him. It was the time he found me smoking pot with my friends. He tried to run away and I tried to stop him. He was so upset, thought I was having sex with the older white guy who brought pot and alcohol so he could hang out with us. Noah misinterpreted it, panicked and tried to leave. He hurt his hands, dug his nails into his palms as he does when he panics. I grabbed his arm and left a bruise. Of course I couldn't wrestle with him like that. He was too soft, too sweet and I marked him.

I failed to protect him. I hurt him, let him down. I learned that I had to be more gentle with him, keep him away from my past. I had so much darkness inside of me then, but he is light enough for both of us. He is the one piece of me that is good, trusting, beautiful.

Even my parents changed in his light. He fit with us, made us softer to each other.

My father, normally critical and harsh, turned to a docile dragon, a muted warrior who enjoyed silly jokes with Noah. He even put his arm around him and taught him about the science or soccer shows they would watch together on tv. Noah didn't care about either, but he sat happily and learned from my father, revered his wisdom. They talked endlessly and my father always kept a hand on him as though he were an angel who could disappear if not secured.

It was like how my grandfather changed around my youngest brother. They were inseparable friends, sharing a bond they had with none other. I could tell my father loved him deeply, welcomed him into our family bond. My father lit up at the sight of him, and fawned over him like his favorite son. Could that so easily be broken by having him as his son's lover?

My mother, though she didn't speak his language, seemed to blossom with happiness at showing Noah how to prepare Persian foods. He watched what she did and tried respectfully, reverently to learn from her like a traditional new bride from our culture would be expected to do. She treated him as though he were her favorite daughter, her beloved apprentice.

It was something my mother constantly complained about with my older brothers' wives. They had no respect or patience for the old ways. But Noah took to them as though it was something new and exciting. It was so natural for him, and yet just the kind of wife she would bond with and cherish in our family. She had never spent time teaching the boys in my family how to prepare food, yet with Noah she welcomed his help, his eager assistance.

I laughed at that thought. The thought of Noah in our family home in Iran cooking with the wives and gossiping with my mother about the social circles she ruled with her iron will. Noah fit so perfectly into everything we held sacred. But he wasn't a woman. He didn't check the first box so the following boxes were irrelevant.

"Are you listening to me? You are so distant, Navi," my mother said from the backseat.

"No, mummy. What troubles you?" I asked in our language. Honestly I was racing home. Noah had texted just as we were leaving the Hamid's house that his father had dropped him off and the door was locked. I always made sure to ask him if the door was locked when he texted that he was home. Sometimes he forgot to do it.

I soared through a yellow light on Reseda, and my father cursed.

"Slow down, maniac! You want to kill us?" He yelled. He was unhappy from an argument with Mr. Hamid who, in his words, had become too Americanized. I could tell he wanted to get home to Noah as much as I did, he was calmer around him.

"I was going over the list. Ziyah is looking like your best option. Mrs. Hamid was telling me in the kitchen that she has lost a lot of weight and hopes to marry soon. She's over 30 now, and finishing a Doctorate in biology! She doesn't want children, but for you she would consider a few. You're so handsome that any of the girls on the list would bare your children!" My mother said happily as she unfolded the paper she kept in her purse.

My mother keeps lists of our potential mates. She has one for every unmarried child. It is her duty to find us the best Persian wives or husbands. She makes notes from when we are children. Is the girl too stubborn? Is the boy too weak or violent? Is the family good? The lists grow and shrink as she meets new families or removes old ones who prove to be unsuitable.

When we married, the list was put away, tucked into her jewelry box. It was a memento of her success, her hard work paying off.

"I don't like her. I've never liked her. Since we were children, she was bossy, rude," I protested like there was ever any danger of me actually marrying her.

"You're still sore about the time she locked you in our closet. You were four years younger than her, you annoyed her. But now she is getting to the age where she needs to marry, become respectable. She says you are very handsome," My mother said.

"Will you please not kill us tonight?" My father yelled as I cut a sharp corner on Burbank to catch the yellow arrow.

"Sorry. I need the restroom." I lied.

"You should have brought Noah. The Hamids have a daughter ready to graduate High School. They want her to find a Persian man, of course, but she has different ideas. A nice boy like Noah would be good for them. She is pretty and I know she would have caught Noah's eye," my father said.

"Noah does not need anything in his eye other than his books. He will focus on school and finish before his eyes travel elsewhere," I shot back. Noah was mine to guide, not his.

"You are a harsh father to him. The boy will grow to resent you if you don't allow him some freedoms. He will rebel back to his old ways," my father cautioned.

"I keep him focused. He thrives under my discipline. You've seen how sweet and respectable he is. That is not by accident," I said as though I had anything to do with Noah's sweet and gentle nature.

I wheeled a sharp right onto our street and headed over the 101 freeway.

"I'm surprised you're not in jail with this reckless driving you do," my father sniped. I ignored it and turned into our complex.

Noah was inside when we arrived. He had his back to us and was singing along to some music in his headphones. He carried a basket of clean laundry and danced a few steps as we paused to watch. He wheeled around in mid chorus and froze when he saw us. He was embarrassed, but otherwise happy. He was always happy. His life was uncomplicated. It kept him pure.

Normally, I would have rushed to take the basket and kiss him when I came home from things. But I couldn't embrace him and that self-placed knife in my chest twisted a little more. Instead I took the basket and told my parents that I needed to go and help him.

He looked adorable in his pajamas. He had showered so his normally gelled up hair was a flop of blonde on top with close shaved sides. His cheeks blushed deep crimson and I wanted to kiss them.

There's something about finding your soulmate. I'd never even considered bringing a boy that I loved around my parents. Their approval was life to me. But for him, I could foresee walking the treacherous road ahead. His life was worth more than my own, his happiness above mine.

With each passing day I spent with my most important people under the same roof, I edged closer to screaming, "Fuck it! I love him! You love him! You know he will be perfect for our family so just get the fuck over it!"

It would destroy my parents, my family, my only blood ties in this world. But they loved him dearly. I loved him, and couldn't be without him. There had to be some way we could all make it through this intact.

My parents went to hug Noah and gave a kiss to his cheeks and forehead.They fawned over him like he was their youngest child. My mother blessed his forehead with her lips, her spoken prayers. She did not give those lightly. Noah had no idea what it meant to her, he just melted in smiles at their touch.

She produced a wrapped plate of cookies from her purse. She had smuggled them for him, and he took them as if they were Pharaoh's gold. He thanked her profusely as my father translated. He said that he missed them, and couldn't believe their trip was nearly over. It was beautiful to see him happy, but I had a need for him. I nodded towards the stairs. He clutched the cookies and bounded up them. I clutched the laundry basket and followed with calls of good night to my parents.

I loved how his firm, bubbled ass bounced up the steps. I couldn't wait to get inside him, but first I needed some mending with his heart.

"Did you have fun? Did you eat anything gross?" he said as his beautiful light green eyes sparkled in the light of the bedroom.

I just nodded, tossed the basket of laundry aside, and sat down on the bed. I took his hand, pulled him towards my lap. He walked forward and straddled my lap, sitting on my thighs and wrapping his arms around my neck.

"Are you going to help me with the laundry?" he asked with a mischievous smile as though we had really come up here for that.

"No, we need talk, princess. I miss you," I said. It used to bother him when I called him my princess. It took me awhile to understand that he truly had no interest in a female role.