The power of suggestion

by BRK   

On a long bus trip, Jordan can't help using his ability to suggest physical changes on his handsome seatmate, but things soon get out of hand.

“Aren’t you a little hot?” I asked the young buck with the smoldering dark eyes in the bus seat next to me. Actually he was very hot, blazingly hot, and frankly I wanted to see what was under the bulky jeans jacket he was wearing. It was late at night, halfway to nowhere, and we were cruising across endless desert under the cold stars. The other passengers dozed, but I was awake. He was tall and lanky, folded into the compact seat, his lithe, jeans-clad bicyclist’s legs looking almost too long to be squeezed into such a compact space. His close-cropped hair was as dark as his eyes. His skin was probably a couple shades darker than mine, but in the dim early-morning light his face seemed to shine in contrast to the inky blackness of his hair and eyes. He was like a charcoal drawing, dark and light, rough and smooth, and I felt myself wanting him desperately.

The boy frowned, as if surprised he hadn’t noticed he was uncomfortable. “Actually I am,” he said, and obligingly shed his jacket, a little awkwardly in the restricted space between me and the window, rewarding me with the sight of generous pecs pushing out a thick green tee shirt.

There was no chance I’d be able to refrain from staring: His torso, gently highlighted by the thick cotton and the faint caress of thin moonlight, was a thing of beauty. And with so much potential, I added to myself, smiling in my own mind.

Fortunately he didn’t seem to mind the attention. His arm was brushing against mine now as he settled back in place, and I thought I felt it casually flex a couple times as he got comfortable. It felt natural to talk about it. “How much do you work out?” I asked.

He glanced down at himself with a certain amount of pride. “Three days a week,” he said. “About an hour or so each session. I wish it were more,” he added wistfully.

Fine by me, I thought. “Two hours a session, you say?” I repeated, and he said, “Yeah, two hours, like I said.” Sure enough the shirt was tighter now, as if we had skipped from one reality to the next in the space between moments, from the reality where he worked out one hour to one where it was two. The fabric strained across the shoulders and across the pecs, and his jeans filled out in the thigh enough that our legs were now pressing lightly together. I was completely hard already, of course, but I schooled myself to be calm and casual. Too direct, and there’s a possibility they’ll sense something is going on that’s out of the ordinary. I’d only had that happen a couple times, but it was enough. Slow and steady, and know when to stop. That was my inviolable rule. Know when to stop.

“And you said five days a week? That’s dedication,” I said, impressed.

The boy’s shoulders turned just that much more massive in mid-shrug. “I don’t mind,” he said, and then added with a brilliant grin, “you can’t argue with the results!”

“I agree,” I said, eyeing the seam that was parting under his arms from his wildly straining pecs and lats. “You look like you’re still a little hot, though.” He nodded, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow.

I paused just a second before deciding I could push things a bit further. I had a good feeling with this guy, but at the same time my heart was thumping, knowing I might get so absorbed I could miss the line and go too far. “Good thing,” I went on, as off-handedly as I could manage, “you really love showing those results off.”

He nodded again. “Do you mind if I—?” he asked, glancing down at his about-to-fail tee shirt. I shook my head and he shucked it.

“So much better,” he said, sounding relieved. “I hate wearing shirts anymore, they’re so constraining.”

“Definitely.” His naked shoulder and arm were totally overlapping mine, as if that was the way people always rode together in buses.

“I’m Carlos, by the way,” he added suddenly.

I offered my hand. “Brad. Brad Pitt.” His eyes bulged, taking in the blond movie god whose body was pressed against his, and I added carefully, “Actually, my name’s really Jordan, but people always say I look exactly like him.”

“You do!” agreed Carlos. “Man, I wish I looked like a hot movie star.” Don’t shoot too low, I thought with a smile. I realized I’d been holding my breath. I hadn’t tried that one before. I started to get the impression I could tell this boy anything. Not because he was gullible, but because he wanted to believe. I suppressed a sudden urge to jump up and walk away before I could test my theory too greedily.

We relaxed against each other for a long while as the bus rumbled on. It was luxurious, feeling those five-days-a-week shoulders overlapping mine. His hand rested on his thick thigh, his fingers gently brushing my leg.

But as comfortable as I was something in me was building slowly up as we lay together, compelling me, daring me to do more.

I didn’t struggle very hard before I gave in. “You seem extremely comfortable talking about your body,” I observed quietly after a while, enjoying his overflow onto my bod as he settled back in his seat a little more.

He grinned, completely relaxed. “It’s just a body,” he said, just as softly, almost whispering in my ear — I could feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. “Arms, legs, torso, head, cock,” he went on. “The usual.”

“Very true.” I swallowed. I couldn’t stop myself. “How big is the cock, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Not at all,” he said, as if I’d asked about the weather. Had I really suggested him into that level of comfort? “But it’s only seven inches.”

“Seventeen inches? That’s pretty amazing!”

I could not believe I had said that. My stupid hard-on, I thought anxiously, angrily, has somehow gained complete control of my brain. But while I was racking my brains to figure out how to gently back-pedal away from what I’d said, he just smiled, and I realized with a shock that the suggestion had resolved. “Yeah, I guess it is,” he shrugged amiably, and his jeans were now so packed the teeth of his zipper were straining. “I’m used to it.”

“So if it’s 17 soft, what does that make it hard, like 25 inches?” I ventured. Stupid! Stupid stupid stupid. He’s got to slam on the brakes with that one.

Instead he looked over at me, grinning. “How’d you know?”

This is unreal, I thought. I was so turned on by this guy and what I’d been able to do that I was practically sick with arousal. My alarm, so shrill in my mind a moment before, was rapidly giving way to a very dangerous curiosity. “Lucky guess,” I said, like we were talking about the lottery. “Good thing you’re wearing these baggy sweats,” I added, because his huge basket now looked almost painfully cramped. Only fair, I reasoned to myself — that basket looked positively painful. “And,” I heard myself saying, relentlessly, unable to stop, “what about the other one?”

My mind and heart and body all froze, trapped between moments. Any other person on the planet would have sat up and stared at me and snapped the whole thread if I’d gone that far. I was unable to breathe, did not need to.

Barely a second passed, an eternity. “The other one?” he breathed softly, as at ease as if I’d asked him what kind of car he drove. “The same,” he said. (No way no way no way no way) “They’re both the same.” (NO FUCKING WAY)

Two swelling cocks were now barely visible in the darkness, twitching and growing against the stretchy fabric. “I thought so,” I whispered, practically unable to talk. “These sweats sure don’t hide very much.”

He nodded ruefully.

His hand actually was on my thigh now, and we were overlapping enough for our heads to touch. We lay back like this for a while, but whereas before we’d gotten comfortable the way you do when you’re sliding into a bubbling hot tub on a cold winter night, now we were both tense, alert, aroused.

My mind was racing. I had already gone so far, and now I could barely restrain myself from blurting out a hundred fantasies. They would all resolve as beautifully as the ones I’d already made. My breath caught. I tried to speak a dozen times, stopped myself, closed my throat. Power corrupts! I’d never really, profoundly understood that expression before now. Suddenly I wanted to be rid of my power, to undo all of the selfish changes I’d ever made to lovers, friends, strangers. Carlos. I started to speak one last time.

But in that moment Carlos turned his head slightly, enough to speak in my ear, not even a whisper. “I’m so glad,” he said gently, “that I could make this trip with —”

He paused, almost as if for effect, to make sure I was listening with every cell of my being. I heard him, felt him lick his lips, felt the pure moment of icy stillness before the plunge.

“—with my twin brother,” he finished.

I turned my head toward him, my eyes wide with surprise (He knows! flashed across my mind, a lightningbolt, but the thought was instantly questioned, doubted, then gone, forgotten), and he pulled his back just a shade, enough so I could see his brilliant smile. Without my even being aware of another motion our lips were reunited, mine and my brother’s, and I was Miguel, his brother, his lover, and my cocks were swelling in my sweats and a light sheen glistened on my thick naked pecs. I had never known such pure happiness as in that moment, knowing what we had been and would be to each other, knowing that the power-obsessed Jordan (poor Jordan!) was not, had not been, would no longer be. I, Miguel, was content and in love. I sighed before sharing a deep, body-engulfing, soul-engulfing kiss with Carlos that lasted all the rest of the way to his — to our — home in San Jose and our life together.

Of course, I couldn’t be certain my power, Jordan’s power, was really gone. Maybe it was still there. Maybe it was something else we shared now, had shared, would share. It was months before I even remembered that I’d ever had it, and then it was like a dream, a dream that paled alongside the bliss of reality.

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