His Ebony Knight And His Ivory Queen Chapter 2: The Fallen Rook

Helicopter Mike was a man. A man with an erotic, sick fantasy.

He had been the subject of many a video in his time. Helicopter Heineys 1-6, Chopper Cheeks Uncut, Well-Hung Blades, Cockpit Cockeaters, Black Cock Down, the David Copterfeel series - he was the star of them all, the hero of many an erotic hovertale. Among the cruisey landing pads of the now ruinous Raccoon City, he had once been a legend. The most closely guarded anuses of the town had opened to him like browning magnolia petals. And yet, despite all the fame and accolades that came from swiveling multitudes on his gyrocockter, he had always felt empty inside, like a sphincter bereft of penetration.

Until he met Chris Redfield.

Only Chris Redfield had broken down the barriers around his heart as cold as ice. He'd wielded the flame, and melted them down. In return, Mike had shared his most precious secret: The Helicopter Manoeuvre.

The most potent sexual technique!

This was handed down in the Chopper family, passed from father to son. And now he, Mike Chopper, had broken the ancient bonds of family to welcome the only man he could truly love, into this most elusive of arts. He, indeed, they, or, perhaps, those two, had, in fact, created together an even more beautiful technique that could only be afforded via the union of two men. Something beyond the Helicopter.

The Twin Helicopter.

He remembered.

That whirling beat. The thrum of sexual energy. The two sets of hips gyrating in perfect synchronicity. The two crotches pressed close. The two huge mancocks whirling around in a beautiful unison, their timing impeccable so as not to touch, but to remain at odds with each other, like the rotors of the flying machines Mike loved so dearly. It was eroticism at its most powerful: To look, but never touch. Their eyes afixed, ablaze, upon each other's beauty and masculine perfection.

It set his loins aflame like petrol poured on his musky dick, a careless match tossed on his hefty balls.

Now he sat alone in the bar, waiting on Leon S. Kennedy. Leon had offered to buy him a drink after the last mission. Mike half-heartedly hoped for a little more than that. But truly his heart wasn't in it, because he had a much beefier hart in mind.

"Chris..." he sighed to himself, over his whiskey. "Where are you, right now?"

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see the pale blue eyes of Leon S. Kennedy peering into his own intensely. Immensely.

Insensibly.

These were two lonely men, whose mission meant that they could trust nobody else. Forming relationships was difficult. Only on the battlefield did love bloom. And it was a harsh love, like black ice. If you fell, you might break something, on this love so cold and hard.

"Hey Mike," said Leon, taking the empty seat next to his. He moved his hand to Mike's knee, tenderly, gently, like a suede glove cupping a ballsack. "Still thinking about Chris, huh?"

How could he see into the murkiest muddy corners of Mike's mind like that? His pants twitched slightly at the close proximity of the other man. A stab of guilt followed, penetrating the pulsating pink rosebud of his heart. Leon was an attractive helipad to land his cockter on, yes, but he was no Chris. Chris, who handled his gearstick as efficiently and smoothly as an experienced pilot. Chris, who didn't mind him making helicopter noises with each smooth thrust up his back passage.

It was enough to break a man's heart into a twisted, blackened wreck.

"He'll always be ... a part of me," he said, at last. "I just wish I could forget sometimes. That day ..."

The chapel was artfully decorated with colourful streamers of crepe. Paper hearts and origami helicopters hung from the rafters. Mike was resplendent in his wedding dress encrusted with black pearls and lace, the train stretching out behind him like a runway to his heart. The pews were filled with the smiling, expectant faces of friends and family. At last, Mike felt like the princess he had always known he was inside.

He waited for his knight at the end of the aisle. Waited as the priest nervously looked at his watch, waited as the guests became increasingly figety and began to drift away. Waited as night fell.

In a way, he had never stopped waiting.

Leon had been the one to dry his tears that night, wiping away the mascera and helping him out of his dress. Leon, and no-one else. He owed him nothing, and yet everything.

"Mike," Leon said, gently. "I can never take ... his place. But I can help you forget, if only for a moment. Please. Let me be your co-pilot for tonight."

And Mike smiled, hesitantly. Smiled and stood from his barstool, the storm inside his pants battering his wang. He took a deep breath and unzipped.

"You lookin' for firepower ... you've come to the right place," he said. The head of his bulging twelve-inch cock was doing slow rotations, like a chopper just warming up her engines. He met Leon's eyes. The blonde man immediately dropped to his knees, cradling Mike's immensity in his hands.

"Drinks are on me," he said, and swallowed all 17 hovering inches to the hilt in his tight pink mouth. Mike's knees buckled. Oh, elysium! Chris had never had such a deep throat! He caught himself before he could fall and shot Leon a sheepish grin.

"Sorry, bad traffic," he muttered. He pulled his engorged semen-powered machine out of Leon's mouth and threw the other man over the bar, jerking down both their trousers in one swift movement. His love length was rotating furiously now, faster than the eye could track, a whirl of pinkness. "I'll cover you."

He jammed his furiously vibrating member home into Leon's cave of treasures. 23 inches of weapon, filling every nook and cranny of his lover's lower intestine like a zombie hoard rampaging through a city block. Leon cried out and spread his cheeks wider, begging for more.

"Better try a new trick," he gasped, pushing harder into Mike. "'Cause that one's getting old."

Ahh, so that was his game. Mike understood completely.

With his powerful arms, Mike tore open Leon's shirt, revealing a treasure trove of trinkets and jewels.

"N-no!" Leon cried, trying to cover his most precious cargo. But it was too late.

"I should've known," said Mike. "Even now, you still belong to HIM!"

"I haven't seen the Merchant in two years. Not since... not since that incident..."

"THEN WHY DO YOU WEAR THOSE JEWELS AND FINERY! IF NOT TO LURE HIM! IF NOT... FOR HIM!"

"Auuuuuugh!" Leon shouted, not knowing what to say. "Uhhhgughghghh!"

They stared at each other. The world stopped. Even so, their powerful erections remained tumescent, sparkling in the bar's seamy light.

Mike was the first to break the silence.

"I... For a moment... I even thought about sharing IT with you..." Mike stammered, croaking back a single bejewelled tear, even more precious that all of Leon's hoardings. "I thought that perhaps... you... but you still belong to HIM."

"And you to HIM! Mike Chopper! We are both prisoners! To be love's bitch... is our lot in life. At least we have each other. At least, beyond our broken hearts... we can meet."

"You're so right, Leon."

They kissed. A single, sweet and lingering moment upon their lips. It tasted like engine oil poured into a used ash tray.

"You've started smoking again, Leon-chan."

Leon smirked, a long and wicked grin.

"I've always been smokin' baby... smokin'... for you."

And with that he took Mike into his mouth again.

"I... mmm... AHHH," said Mike, powerfully aroused.

And thus, their roto-orgy went on long into the night.

IN THE WEE SMALL HOURS OF THE MORNING...

Mike awoke, covered in a thin layer of sweat and a thick layer of santorum. He took stock of his surroundings. A spartan bedroom. A collection of guns. Several pictures of the president's daughter, Ashley Graham, a most beautiful young loli. This was truly Leon's room, reflecting his personality like a magical mirror that hunts out secret truths, and exposes them for all to see.

Leon was nowhere to be found.

Mike pulled the silken sullied sheet aside, and heaved himself out of bed. His large frame ached from the night of passion, but it was oh so worth it. Their bodies had moved in time, and in space, and in rhythm. It was rhythm heaven. Mike looked down at his broad body, and surveyed the mess. His chest was drizzled in drying semen. His crotch in Leon's dinner from the other night. He detected the faint tang of microwave ready-meal chicken korma. Poor Leon... Living alone, with nobody to care for him.

Mike wandered, still naked, out of the bedroom and down the hall. There was the light of a computer monitor, pooling palely on the wall, and around the corner, there was Leon, still encrusted in finery, gold and silver, the chain of a pocket watch dangling from his puckered orifice. But other than the priceless artefacts, completely nude, and concentrating very hard on the screen, which seemed to be displaying a map.

"Leon?"

"Mike... There is something I have to tell you."

"Go on," said Mike, uncertainly, not liking the note in Leon's tone. It spoke of ill tidings, without words.

"It's about Chris."

Mike said nothing. Leon turned to him, and his shiny eyes pierced Mike's brown eyes. They shared a moment in silence. Intensity in ten cities.

"The last time I saw Chris... I implanted a homing beacon butt-plug about his person, without him realizing. You see, I knew there was going to be grave danger. It was designed to activate the moment Chris clenched in fear. And today, right now, he has experienced true terror."

Mike's face was ashen. He was overjoyed. Chris could be found. But he must be in mortal peril if he, a jaded and powerful pro-wrestler and kung-fu master, was deathly afraid.

"We have to find him," said Leon, eyes burning with a mako glow.

"My chopper is always ready," said Mike, and he meant it in more ways than one.

TO BE CONTINUED