Fucks on a plane

Before you even sit down I know that you’ll sit down next to me. Also? I know that we’ll talk.

I’m not psychic. I know we’ll sit next to each other because you are being extremely dorky and anal-retentive about just where exactly your seat is as you shuffle down the isle toward me. Maybe you’ve been screwed for over-head cargo space very recently, because you keep looking at your boarding pass, and then counting the seats from where you’re standing, arriving at the empty seat next to me, checking how full the cargo bin above it is, and then looking back down at your boarding pass. I’ve seen you do this 5 times already. You’re sitting right here next to the window It’ll be fine.

I know we’ll talk because you’ve already managed to nervously chat up two stewardesses and the older guy behind you, and you’re not even past the first-class cabin yet.

I’m not huge on talking on airplanes. In fact, normally I’d throw on some headphones and feign sleep before you sat down. It’s nothing personal, I just hate the airplane conversation. The irony of the airplane conversation is that getting to know the passenger next to you actually dehumanizes them, because they’re always a boring replica of every other person you’ve ever had the airplane conversation with. The airplane conversation makes everyone the same. I’d rather just assume the person sitting next to me is amazing, and then not give them the opportunity to prove me wrong.

You on the other hand… Ok I’ll admit it: I’m looking forward to talking to you. It doesn’t hurt that you’re super cute with your curt red-hair and your adorable freckles and your bright green eyes. And yes your clingy pink sweat-pants and your starched, white, open, button-down shirt over that tight, wife-beater-tank top is easily the sexiest god-danmed thing I’ve seen in months (and I get around). I think it has something to do with the fact that you’re not even trying, and yet you look amazing. Genuine. Lovely. I have a feeling you’ve had dozens of conversations on airplanes without ever once having the airplane conversation.

And now as the line moves I see why you’re worried about room in the over-head bin. You appear to be dragging a 300lb magicians trunk down the isle. Yeah, there’s no way you’re hoisting that obviously full-sized suitcase into the overhead yourself without a forklift. You’re 5’5″, 120 pounds tops. I don’t know who in their right mind let you get this far with that elephant crate but I’d bet several hundred thousand dollars they were male… or lesbian. Welp, you have the window anyway, so I stand up to white-knight shove that monster into a bin for you and let you in to your seat.

You take me in as I stand. You like the look of me too, or at least my height. “Thanks cutie” you smile as you brush your palm across my stomach on your way into our row like we’ve been dating for weeks. It was not an accidental brush. It was your open palm and spread-out fingers, sliding luxuriously across my midriff. Your pinky actually hooked inside the waistline of my pants there for a moment as I fought your cement-block suitcase into the bin. The TSA literally doesn’t fondle me as effectively as you just did in the course of an actual pat down. I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m far from upset by this, I mean, your touch surprises me, but it doesn’t surprise me that you’re touchy.

By the time the drink service arrives we’re already through the pleasantries and the flirting has begun in earnest. And can I just say? You’re delightful. Earlier, you seemed like you might be a little girly. Geeky and naive maybe? But here, now, with me, you’re all woman. I mean you’re still sweet and geeky, but also canny, chic, demure, and you manage to pull all of this off while cursing like a sailor. I could happily chit-chat with you forever. You flirt like an absolute pro – our back-and-forth is like a dance: quick; witty; smooth; sensual. You surprise me and the stewardess by ordering two Jack and Cokes off the cart, but then you push one at me without asking, giving me a dark little wink. The stewardess raises an eyebrow at us. Dang girl. That was so smooth.

Our flirtation escalates as we sip at our drinks. We make each other laugh and blush. You effortlessly work in more contact; your fingernails on my knee, or on my forearm, like the most natural thing in the world. I tingle with your every touch, fixating on you. Drinking in your exposed collarbones, and elegant neck. Your beautiful lips, and sexy freckles. I don’t touch back, playing it cool; but I sorely want to; like, I bitterly, viscerally, feel-it-on-the-back-of-my-tongue want to touch you back.

You’re taking me in as well. I see how your emerald eyes dart to my comparatively large hands and partially exposed biceps. I know that – probably despite yourself – you think my disorderly hipsterish man-bun is pretty; that you like the hard line of my chin, and my muscular jaw. I know from when I stood to help you with your luggage, that you like that I’m tall. I angle toward you. My shoulder into the seat, attempting to accentuate these parts of myself for you. I want you to want me, even though I already know you do. You adjust to face me as well, and now we have our very own little space together. Intimate and safe, like a pillow-fort. The armrest creates a border between us. It seems like a formidable thing to me – a demilitarized zone – but you toy with it; attacking across, and expertly retreating. Making a game of violating my airspace. One hand loosely holding your drink, the other camped on the armrest when it isn’t making forays into my space, to tug at my shirt, or lightly brush the back of my hand. Your every touch a bomb dropping.

Your eyes sparkle as you set me up to give you compliments. Like when you mention the in-flight system on Virgin Atlantic where you can send “winks” (you wink at me as you say the word) to another passenger you think is hot. I don’t miss any opportunity, winking back, grinning. Smoothly replying I don’t need an app to wink at the hottest girl on this flight. You flash that bright, naughty smile at me. I’ll take it to my grave. You swish the ice in your empty cup, attacking across the line again. Resting your cold hand on hot forearm to ask if I want another. I do, and I tell you this round is on me.

I sit back and start to unbuckle, to grab another round from the back, but before I have the lap-belt off you’re above me – astride me. Your lips tantalizingly close to my ear, your hand on my chest below my shoulder. I gasp at the suddenness of your proximity; the overwhelming sensation of your softness. I inhale you with that gasp; the elegance of your expensive perfume co-mingling with the naughtiness of the cheap whiskey on your breath.

“Nah, that’s ok.” you whisper “I got it.”, and I understand. It was just a pretense for a wholesale invasion – a means for you to wholly occupy my space and wrecking-ball demolish that itty-bitty imaginary line between us that I thought was so daunting.

“You sure do” I agree, running my fingers up your soft thigh, giving you a little squeeze. I couldn’t help myself.

“Easy tiger” you tease, sliding into the aisle. But you don’t fool me. I could hear the delight in your voice. Could feel you exploring my deltoid as you made your reluctant escape. So you like my shoulders too.

Things take a turn for the serious when you return with the second round. Taking no chances this time, you occupy my hands, placing a drink in each before you climb across. Smiling down at me sensuously as you too-slowly make your traversal. I rest my head back against the seat and watch, behaving myself as you work your way across me. Our conversation ironically veers into the banal now as we try to fit the puzzle pieces of our separate lives together into something that might make sense. It’s immediately obvious that it won’t work out.

The closest thing we have is that I’m sometimes in NYC and you’re sometimes in Toronto. I’m disappointed and so are you, and you ask what my preferred social networks are. In the moment, it’s easy to tell myself that we’ll keep in touch; that we’ll meet up sometime. I want to. You want to. We both know we wont. I tell you I mostly Twitter, and give you my handle.

“What? no tinder?” that naughty smile of yours again as you pick up the flirting, pretty much right where we left off.

“I’d sign up for farm-dating-with-christ.com if I knew I’d find you there” I shoot back.

“So you’d swipe right on me then?” you ask, that restless hand of yours settling on my instep.

“I’d swipe that pretty white shirt clean off your freckly little shoulders” I promise, taking a sip. Why be coy? We only have another hour together tops.

“Oh yeah? Right here? Mile-High style?” you beam at me, taking a sip of your own. Ok, that is an option that honestly hadn’t even occurred to me and you’re so smooth you made it sound like it was my idea.

“Um.” is all I can manage.

Your eyes narrow “ah c’mon now” your naughty grin “This can’t be your first time”

“Oh but it is” I admit grinning darkly back. It’s true, but I’m neither ashamed of it nor worried that it might be a buzz-kill for you. In fact, by now I know you well enough to know my confession will be a massive turn-on for you. Not just because you’ll find the honesty, and vulnerability hot, but also you bought me two drinks and felt me up before you knew my name. You like to drive – to have your way. So go on then. Bust my cherry.

You smile wryly, seeing through me. “My ass”. Your hand slides up my instep a few inches and encounters my raging hard-on. You hold my eyes in silence for a second or two, searching my soul, trying to decide if you’re being played. “Ok then” you whisper, leaning in, our lips meet, your cold to my hot, your soft to my stubble.

“Give me 5 minutes and scratch the door. Time it so the stewardess doesn’t see.”. You kiss me again, deeply. Your tongue exploring as you climb over me back into the isle. You taste sharp and fresh, like sunrise in october. I grab a whole heaping hand-full of your luscious little ass this time as you cross. Squeezing you in a way that I know will spread your labia as you climb across my lap. You flinch, grunting lustily into my mouth ‘MPH’. My cheeks puff with the force of it. I feel dizzy when you’re gone. Shakey. My heart pounds through my light whiskey buzz. I check my watch.

Three minutes later the aft stewardess makes a trash run, and I stroll down the isle to join you, running my fingernails across the door. I will remember this walk forever. Every single sleepy overweight passenger I pass. You quietly open it, pulling me inside and latching it behind me. I never use airplane lavatories unless I absolutely can’t help it. At 6’4″, I just don’t fit in the space, and together with you, I’m having to lean back on the door just to have a place to stand. How on earth is this going to work, I barely have space to tilt my head to look down at you.

You know what you’re doing though. You already have your sweatpants off. You’ve thrown them over my shoulder, you’ve made me one-part fuckbuddy, one-part closet. I lean down to kiss you, but bump the door noisily in the process. You grab my wrist, shushing me with an annoyed little shake.

“Don’t move” you whisper “Just stand there”, as I feel your hands on my belt, expertly yanking it apart. I produce a condom from my pocket and you grab it, putting it between your teeth for safekeeping as you strip drop my jeans, and stroke me exquisitely. “Dang boy” you purr, running one hand under my cock, filling your palm with my weighty scrotum. Your other hand runs up under my shirt, and gives me an exquisite little nipple pinch.

“UMPH” I grunt jealously at your hands. I can’t reach below your waist without bending and hitting the door again, but I can get under your shirt. For the moment you’re so close I’m limited to your back, which is fine with me. I explore lightly with both hands over the swell of your upper-ass and lower back, sweeping up over your shoulder blades, pulling you in to me. “MMM. fuck” I whisper as you fold my hard-on up under your tank-top, massaging it against your soft belly with one hand, while you continue to work my chest with the other. I rake my nails up the back of your neck, threading my fingers into your hair. I want to kiss you again. To feel your lips on mine. But it’s also somehow hot that I can’t. I can’t even really see you. If it weren’t for the mirror over the sink my only view would be of the top of your head. In the mirror however, I can see you lifting my shirt, your freckled cheek flushed, your lips parted in that salacious lust-buzz. I feel that buzz too, accidentally moaning as your lips and teeth encounter my nipples.

Your hand shoots out from under the collar of my shirt, your fingers finding my mouth and plugging it rudely. Your fingers taste like whiskey; I lick them hungrily, leaving one hand on the back of your head, encouraging you to bite at my chest to your hearts content – I’ll be good I promise – while my other swoops around your waist and works it’s way around your hand and my throbbing boner and onto your breasts, which are squeezed beautifully into me. I work over the swell of your chest, freeing your erect nipples, playing them between the meat and nail of the tip of my thumb. Now it’s your turn to moan, and I Consider shoving a few fingers in your mouth to get even but I don’t really want to spare a hand.

That gives me an idea, so I momentarily abandon your breasts, grabbing into the sweatpants you hung over my shoulder and fishing out your panties. I pull your head back by your hair, take my condom back in my teeth, and gently feed you your own panties. Our eyes meet while I have your head held back, and you blush, grinning wickedly at me as my thumb works them into your willing mouth. We would make a good couple you and I.

You use your grip on my mouth to shift me sideways, so that I’m facing the sink instead of the toilet. You abandon my mouth to reach sideways, dropping open the diaper changing station over the toilet. I release my grip on your hair, sensing you are about to climb, which you do. Planting one foot expertly on the trash shoot and an arm on the diaper station, you encircle my waist with one leg. I grab it, your weight is nothing to me, I could hold you here with this leg alone, but then your other leg joins it, and your chilly, naked lower-half clings to mine. My hands clasp your lower thighs, and I can feel your wetness against my warmth.

Now I can reach your lips, but your panties have become an impediment; one I can’t remove while my hands are occupied holding you up. I want to kiss you so bad. You stoke my hair and neck, watching me hungrily consider your swollen lips. Unable to spare a hand to retrieve what I put in your mouth. You dig them for me, kissing me deeply — ah thank god. Your kiss though– you push your hips back to allow me to bring my hard-on between us. You bite my lower lip as you settle back in to me, grabbing the head of my cock and working it up and down. I pull you in tight, my arms wrapping around you like vines, my hands exploring into your crotch from below. Spreading your labia with one hand, and working my fingers around your clit with the other.

You break our kiss with a gasp as my fingers explore you, wrapping one arm loosely around my neck and with the other, stealing back the condom and forcing your spit-soaked panties into my mouth. “Mmmmpphh” I moan, surrendering my mouth to you. It feels so good to give.

“mmm that’s right cutie.” you purr, unwrapping the condom, working it down on to me, grinding your hips in circles as I work my fingers into you. Settling down onto my cock now, your fingernails biting into my neck and shoulder. I spare one hand for a moment to pull the back of your shirt up so I can see your lovely naked freckled back in the mirror as your work yourself around on my cock. You cum for me, I think at the realization that I’m watching you grind yourself on me in the mirror.

I take control as you begin to shudder, settling you down onto my pulsating shaft as far in to you as it will go. Holding you there, your full weight nearly supported entirely by my cock as your first orgasm sputters and contracts around me. With your weight on my member, I can spare a hand to firmly massage your soggy cunt just north of your clit. Working my fingers and palm expertly against your convulsing tummy.

Now, for the record, normally I’d give you some shit-talk right now, as you helplessly come your brains out, impaled on my shaft while I slow-masturbate you into semi-consciousness with a well-practiced clitoral massage. I might, for example, tell you to come for me like the slut you are, or maybe start counting your orgasms for you (One, down, 9 to go bitch), or make you say a dirty word or two, but alas you’ve pretty effectively gagged me here, so you’ll just have go without. You buck and shudder, wrapping your arms under mine and around my chest, your cheek on my collarbone, you squeeze, holding on for dear life as you involuntarily churn and shudder, my hand working merciless little circles, drawing your orgasm out.

Momentarily I feel you subside, and I lift you back up. You pant heavily on my shoulder, stroking my hair. “That’ll do pig” you pant, biting my ear, “lets have 7 more just like that”. We would make an epic couple.

And then, as if on-cue the fasten-seat belt light comes on, and the captain informs us that we’re beginning our approach. We look at each other, your disappointment is palatable, and I feel exactly the same. Fuck. We should have started earlier.

Wordlessly you drop to your knees, ripping off the condom and swallowing me whole. I jump, to the extent that’s possible, actually thankful now for the panties in my mouth because you’re a blowjob fucking rembrandt, suddenly doing things with your tongue and fingers that I’ve never even read about. “MMMMPPPHFFFKK!” I grunt through your soggy underwear as you mercilessly deep-throat me. The sight of your delicate, freckled shoulders, your soft hair in my fingertips, the sensation of your tank-top clad breasts flattening against my legs…

I explode into your throat in about 15 seconds (record time), just as the aft stewardess politely knocks on the door. “Everything Ok?”

“Ye-yeah” my voice cracks as I fish your panties out of my mouth to answer. You’re holding your lips all the way to my torso; the entire length of my cock down your hot throat, as I throb load after load into your esophogus. You’re lightly tickling my nuts with your fingernails, and doing this thing with your teeth where you’ve closed them just enough that the base of my shaft encounters them, constricting itself against the sharp edge of them as it expands with each contraction of my orgasm. The sensation is indescribable – exquisite, rapturous, unbearable. “AAAAAH’ll be out in just a second” I manage.

Then the scramble as we pull our clothing back together, the thumping of too many appendages in too small a space.

“uh-huh” intones the Stewardess disapprovingly as we crack open the door and walk-of-shame it back to our seats, plopping down next to each other for almost certainly the last time. Heh, ‘for the last time’.. It’s utterly ridiculous but I’m already nostalgic for you. I want to say something, but there isn’t really anything to say. That was all we get you and I. Then I feel your head settle against my shoulder, your arm entwine into mine. You’re fast asleep 15 minutes later when they announce tray tables up and seat-backs in their upright positions. I watch you snooze, dreading our return to earth. Literally tearing up at the thought of my inevitable zig to my connecting flight; watching you zag for yours, but right now, right at this very moment here and now, we’re still in the air. The earth has no hold on us.

Maybe if I end the story here we’ll stay aloft forever.

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