Videre

Yeah, yeah, he looks weird. So what? We're all misfits here.

Ya' wouldn't believe how quickly you forget though, when ya' see someone day in, day out, you stop noticin' that they have green hair. Or red eyes. Or that they can fly. So watching other people's reactions to him can be /Oh yeah, he's blue. He's got a tail. He's a fuzzy freak. I forgot. It seems so important to some folks, but why? What harm does it do to anyone else, that he's the colour of the early evening sky?

To my eyes, he's beautiful.
I love watching him move in the gym, so damn graceful, particularly when he's not aware he's being watched. He's such a ham, such a show off, give him an audience and The Incredible Nightcrawler will be there, all theatrical flourish and pizazz. But when he's alone, when he's just being Kurt, when he moves just for the joy of it, that's poetry in motion. Combine the power of an Olympic athlete with the grace of a Cirque du Soleil performer and you're getting there. The concentration must be incredible but he makes it seem effortless.

When he dismounts and lands, he's breathing hard, that was a good workout, he's in a bit of a lather, like a thoroughbred after a race. Clean sweat. I lick my lips. Yeah, I'd very much like to lick that foam off.

He makes me hard, just watching him from the back of the control booth, it's five in the morning, no one else is mad enough to be up at this hour, but the place is crawling with monitors and security cameras. I might be an idiot, but I'm not stupid.

By the time I get down to the changing rooms, he's stripped off the soaked layers of expensive gym kit, nothing but the best for our boy, you'd not believe how much some of that shit costs, all custom, all made for him. Chuck can afford it, can afford to keep him.

He's not in the showers yet, he's sat on a towel on the bench, his back to me. He's no longer out of breath, he's tremendously fit, but I smile as I watch him. I know what you're doing, bad lad.

The sheen of white sweat, across the broad planes of his back, picks out the muscles under the fur. Gorgeous back. He's not over muscled, not like some of the guys. Being an acrobat is a balancing act between the weight of the muscles and the power. If he gets too heavy, he's less effective, but he has to have the strength, to do what he does.

And right now what he's doing is jerking off in the locker room, into a sock, like guys have always done. My precious, precocious lad, underneath that blue velvet, he's just the same as the rest of us. Oh, he can be a pissy little madam, if you let him, so sometimes I take him away for the weekend, give him a damn good seeing to, it makes everyone's life a bit easier. Freshly fucked, Kurt's a sweetheart. No need to thank me, Scotty.

The harsh overhead lights don't do him justice. He's better by candlelight, the warm glow echoing his golden eyes. He's astonishing by moonlight. Unearthly. A sculpture in blue and silver. I've had him by both. Fucked him, warm, wet and willing in the cool moonlight. Oh, yeah. Unearthly.

But, under the neon strip, at least I get to see it all, the glorious details, as his shoulder muscles move to the tempo of his hand. He's working himself quite slowly, confident that no one else is about; footsteps echo loudly on the hard floor, he thinks he'd hear someone else coming in. So I move carefully, silently until I can see more. See his hand moving. See his peach of an ass rocking slightly on the towel, rubbing his balls against the bench. Oh, yeah, go for it, baby.

I touch my own cock through my sweats, I've been been hard since I was watching him work out, leaking a damp patch at my sweats. He puts both hands on the bench beside him, he's working himself with that talented tail now. Kurt very much likes his unique body, and is very, very good at knowing how to make it happy.

His head drops back, fists braced on either side of his ass cheeks. Muscles clench, relax, move smoothly under the fur. His breathing gets faster, the rhythm of that wicked tail increasing, moving the fabric of the sock, milking himself.

Fuck, he's hot.

I rub myself in rhythm with him. Go on, lad. Ah, yeah. Just look at ya' fuckin' gorgeous. Sweat glistens on the indigo fur, he gasps, arching his flexible spine so all the back muscles move as one and then he's coming, he snaps forward, hisses through his teeth to try and keep it quiet. Not known for keepin' things quiet, our Kurt, but see, he can if he tries. I cream my sweatpants a couple of strokes later, ah, what a glorious view, ain't nothing prettier.

He takes a couple of deep breaths, shakes out those broad shoulders. After a minute, he bends, giving me a glorious view of his tight ass and hanging cock and balls and picks up his damp kit, including the sock; he'll wash them himself, considerate, and good about cleaning up after himself. An' hidin' the evidence.

He disappears in a crack of displaced air and gush of sulphurous smoke; why slum it in communal showers when you can have the luxury of your own bathroom?

Wonder if he wants me to go up and scrub his back?