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Overnight to Boston


Prom Night

Two gay short stories


Kendall Morgan

Published by Tulabella Ruby Press

These stories were previous published in the Kendall Morgan Sampler

Copyright 2015 Kendall Morgan/All rights reserved

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All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

Other titles by Kendall Morgan:

Twinks in Bearland

Rough Cut

Spooky Ginger Love

Hard Sell

The Last AIDS Patient

Keeping Score

A Second Look

Editor: Cassandra Pierce

Table of contents

Overnight to Boston

Prom Night

About Kendall Morgan

Other titles by Kendall Morgan

Connect with Kendall Morgan

Overnight to Boston

I saw the ripples in his blue jeans before I saw the twinkle in his dark brown eyes. His deep brown skin looked smooth as silk, and his jeans hugged his hips so snugly they looked as if they had been constructed on him as he stood in place in an obliging tailor shop.

The train was still in the station. Our eyes met for only a moment as he put his luggage up on the rack and chose a seat directly in front of me. I was taking the long way to Boston, a 23-hour train ride from Chicago. Before he dropped into the maroon seat, my eyes traveled quickly from his long face to his manicured fingers and the pale blue threads of his jeans.

He pushed his seat back, and I looked down at the folded newspaper in my hands. The train jerked out of the station. The lights flickered on and off, and we coasted through the south side of Chicago.

“You know, the schools won’t open on time. They never do,” I heard from above me. “The teachers will strike.”

“Huh?” I said.

He was leaning over the back of his chair, looking right at me. The last ray of sunlight shone through his close-cropped hair and off his high cheekbones, making him look angelic.

“They won’t open. The fall of 1994 will be the same as every other school year,” he said, grabbing my newspaper and tapping his finger against the screaming headline, “Schools in Crisis!”

“What makes you such an expert?” I tried to say it with confidence but probably came off as cocky. The rumblings of the train were travelling up through my penny loafers, through my legs and centering on my dick. “Can I have my newspaper back?”

“I am an expert.” He tossed the newspaper into my lap. “I’m a teacher, and I wouldn’t be going to Boston if I thought I might have to go to work next week.”

The scenery changed from tightly packed brick houses to suburban sprawl. Housing projects and billboards for liquor gave way to townhouses and billboards for long distance telephone companies. Occasionally we saw Lake Michigan, other times grim belching factories, but as we chatted, I learned about his passion for teaching physics. He lived for music and liked to go to the clubs, but hated to run into his students outside of class. His name was Nic. I told him my name was Brian and that I had just quit a deadly dull office job. I was single—so was he—and I was going to Boston for no other reason than to go someplace else.

And all I could think of was his cock—I imagined it to be beautiful—pressing against white cotton underwear and the metal zipper of his jeans.

The train stopped and more people boarded, and he said, “Why don’t I just sit next to you? I’d hate to risk sitting next to someone who’s boring, or, worse yet, smells.” He smirked and surrendered his seat to a young hetero couple that wanted to snuggle together under a blanket.

I noticed that his jeans were tighter.

Sitting beside me with no armrest between us, he offered me nuts, salted cashews, but our conversation began to lose steam. We went from occupations to the governor’s race to the weather, while my dick went from stiff to stiffer, and I started to squirm.

He placed his hand on my knee, looked me in the eye and said, “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m going to the washroom.” He may have winked. I’m not sure, but his hand was warm. He stood up. As he walked down the narrow aisle, I took in the curve of his ass and the casual sway of his body.

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