“Connecting flight is in Denver,” he said.
“Make sure you get 16A on the outbound, and I’ll get 16B, so we can ride together.”
As the wheels touched down in The Mile High City, she was sitting at his gate after just arriving an hour earlier, debating kissing him more passionately than she ever has before, or kicking him swiftly in nuts.
It was a coin flip as to which way she would go just the night before.
Angry passion, and not the good kind, was boiling within her. The kind that makes for great make-up sex, assuming there is a make-up in the first place. He knows that feeling all too well before a rendezvous with the love of his life. He knows where she is at, rehearsing “fuck you’s” in her head, yet still craving the storybook ending.
It’s that storybook ending that always drove these hopeless romantics to keep pressing on. Two kinky-as-fuck hopeless romantics, but romantics nonetheless. In the end, the fight for the storybook ending always wins out with them.
“What’s the point of resisting it?” He thought. Wisdom, along this magic carpet ride of a romance, is one of the few silver linings to the ups and downs. We will always keep fighting for it — no matter what.
“The course of true love never did run smooth,” he reminds himself.
Walking out of the jet bridge, carry-on in hand, he spots the stunning brunette muse that he has spent the past year and a half writing the most sinful of odes to. Francesa under an Orange Sky, the gentleman inside him gives way to the carnal lust for her and quickly makes a beeline to her, discards the formalities, and kisses her like he is being shipped off to war.
Standing there with nobody paying attention, he presses his thigh into the meat of her cunt to let her know what he dying to get after.
“Fuck,” he thinks.
“This is fucking torture.”
“How many hours until the suite?” he thinks. “Four, best case scenario?”
Thinking to himself, “fine, if we are going to kill time — we are going to do it my way.”
Rummaging around his dominant and sinister mind, he says, “reach in my laptop bag. There is a small bottle of lube in the front pocket.”
“Pull it out, and don’t be discreet about it.”
“Now I know you’ve been a good girl and brought your plug with you like you were told. I know you brought your Ben Wa balls too.”
“Of course I did. You told me to,” she says.”
“Now you see that ladies room over there? Go stuff your cunt and ass for me. And when you do it, I want you to call me from the stall. I want you to rub your little pink bean when you do it. I want you to edge. And I want you to send me a video of it when you do.”
“Yes Sir,” she says.
After 20 minutes of torturing her kitty, he tells her, “it’s time to board the plane. Come out — they are about to call for our section.”
Her pussy is now craving an orgasm like never before.
Soaking wet and with pussy as sensitive as it gets, aching for release, she walks out into the terminal corridor and she sees him, knows he is the solution to this burning desire to cum, knows her answer is standing right in front of her — and there isn’t a damn thing she can do about it.
He gives her a look like he is enjoying this way too much.
They are about to call their section, the board, he doesn’t dare let her lift her own bags, and they take their seats as the only people in their row. Purse and laptop under the seats and as soon as a flight attendant walks by, he says, “excuse me. She isn’t feeling great. Can we get a blanket and a pillow?”
Immediately her stomach drops because she knows he is up to no good.
“Really? I am feeling ill? Seriously?”
He just laughs his fucking ass off because he knows the blanket is really just a shield for what his hands and hers will be doing mid-flight.
Wheels up, cruising altitude, and he has pretty much made her clitoris wish it was never born by now. “This has to be about an hour of edging now,” he thinks. She is practically seeing stars at this point.
“You look like you have to go pee,” he says. “Are you, umm, feeling ill? Do you need some help in the restroom, maybe?”
He can’t even say this shit with a straight face.
At this point, she doesn’t even give a fuck how it looks — she is dying to cum. Dying to cum! Dying!
There are no flight attendants at the back of the plane and one lavatory door reads a green “Unoccupied.” Luck could not be better, so she opens the door and he follows her inside.
Immediately her pants and his are pulled down with swiftness, knowing they have about five minutes, tops, to make this “mile high club” fantasy come to life.
When she drops her pants with her ass facing him, the jewel butt plug and the symmetry of her ass cheeks makes him take one moment to soak it all in. “Just one moment,” he thinks.
He spits on his fingers, reaches around her to get access to her clit, and with his other hand, he pulls the soaking wet Ben Wa balls out of her dripping pussy, stuffs them in her mouth, and pulls his hard cock out.
“No time for foreplay,” he thinks.
He shoves himself straight back into her and wants to make her feel his presence immediately, colliding the head of his rock hard cock with her cervix and trying hard as he can to keep her quiet.
She moans, loud.
Immediately, his palm covers her mouth, shutting her up, while he pounds away on her pussy. Her Ben Wa balls still in her mouth, he pulls out her iPhone and snaps a picture for the memory as he takes her at 35,000 feet.
Fifteen minutes prior, he told her to stroke his cock under the blanket, knowing he needed to finish fast in the airplane bathroom or he’d be left with no orgasm until they reached the hotel.
Pounding away, rubbing her clit faster and faster she bursts and cums as hard as she has in a year. He covers her mouth as best he can but he knows people had to hear something.
Exploding his seed inside her, he pulls the balls out of her mouth, shoves them back inside her, tells her, “Keep my cum in you. Let it spill out the whole flight. Feel like a slut when you do.”
She says, “yes Daddy.”