Message-ID: <155303Z04071995@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.masturbation.penet.fi
From: an272878@anon.penet.fi (Erostos)
X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.masturbation.penet.fi
Organization: Anonymous forwarding service
Reply-To: an272878@anon.penet.fi
Date: Tue,  4 Jul 1995 15:45:24 UTC
Subject: "Fall Flight" m/m (Repost)
Lines: 314


       "Night Flight to Bonner's Ferry" m/m

    I'd made the flight from Spokane to Bonner's Ferry many times
before, but usually had few charters once winter approached. 

    This day the weather was marginal, leaving me to wonder if I
shouldn't tell my passenger that we would have to wait till morning
till the front passes. Besides, he was late, and I was tired, hot, and
now annoyed as well.

    He finally showed up, occupying the passenger seat of a tiny red
sports convertible.  For several minutes he just sat there, as he and
his young driver had what I took to be their goodbyes;  but when
the door opened, I could see his companion slipping his hand from
my passenger's left thigh.  He stepped out, looked over to me as I
waited by the wing of the airplane, and waved.  Almost at once - as
a habitual gawker of the male body - I could feel the stirrings that
clearly must be linked to my visualizing what his thigh must have
felt like. 

    As he walked over to the plane - actually, he sauntered in that
mesmerizing swagger that puts the very best spin on the male torso
- my attentions to his thigh now slipped a bit northwards to the full,
round prominence behind the fly of his Levi's, leaving little doubt
as to the maleness of my charter customer.  The stirring in my own
Levi's was now undeniable, as my musings were interrupted by ...

    "Hi, I'm Rob.  I guess you're waiting for me. Sorry to be late, but
I was... detained a bit," glancing back at his ride who apparently
was going to wait to see his friend take off. 

    "Hey, no prob," I responded weakly.  "The problem may be this
weather, though. It'll get worse before it gets better.  I'd even given
some thought that we might want to wait till morning before
attempting Bonner's Ferry."

    "Well, it's your call," he said, "but it means a lot for me to get
there before noon tomorrow. And besides, after today I have no
place to stay hereabouts. I thought if I flew out today I'd be sure of
meeting the group I plan to join for a trek into the Kaniksu Range. 
But you do what's safe - it's your call." 

    A part of me (the professional charter pilot) wanted to wait.
Another part wanted to stay with this hot looking young guy, and
not send him back with his "companion."  

    "Perhaps we could take off, and judge things from the air.  If the
weather holds, we get through; if not, we land and put up for the
night at an airport on route."  "Sounds good to me," he said. "Lets
go."

    Rob was obviously in his twenties, obviously rich enough to be
able to hire a pilot and a plane that could seat eight, obviously
male, and obviously - intentionally or otherwise - sending messages
directly to my groin.  

    I confess to having spent my recent years as a firm - sometimes
downright hard - observer of the younger male members of my
personal society.  For me there had always been a real turn-on to
watch a nice, round, tight butt filling out a faded pair of Levi's,
particularly when their occupant projected that certain matured
innocence of youth not yet gone - a still boy-like quality of casual
nonchalance about his own well formed male body that nature
designed to entice and seduce those of us on the observer side of
the dance.  

    He struggled up into the right front seat of the airplane, hoisting
his travel bag on his shoulder.  With the palms of my hands on his
firm butt, I gave him the assist he needed to propel himself into the
co-pilot's seat of my plane, tossing his small travel bag in the
narrow aisle between the rear seats.  Nice. Tight. Hard.

    I'd already done my pre-flight check, so we were ready to go. I
made sure the doors were shut and locked, yelled "clear" to the
empty field next the plane and to the lone figure sitting in the red
car in the background.  The engine stirred and the plane became
again a living thing.

    As I taxied across the open field, Rob said: "I can't seem to get
this seat belt adjusted right.  How does it tighten?"  I explained, but
he kept fumbling with it, having no clear success.  I stopped the
plane and said: "Here, let me do it for you." 

    I reached over, made the necessary adjustments to its length,
and proceeded to couple the ends.  On impulse, I slipped my hand
under the belt as if to test its tightness, letting the back of my hand
rest leisurely on the bulge at his crotch. "That feels real fine," he
said. I'd hoped his meaning was the one I took.  "Then we're ready,"
I said; "let's drill a hole in the sky."  My attentions, however, were
more than they should be on the young male body in the seat to my
right, and the physical stirrings in the male body of the pilot.

    We were airborne less than an hour, heading northeast over the
low terrain between Spokane and the mountains of northern Idaho. 
The weather patterns were, as always, from the northwest; and off
to our left we could see the frontal system converging inexorably
toward our destination.  It certainly wasn't a hundred-year-storm,
and I was reasonably sure we could make it to Bonner's before
ceilings and visibility dropped to minimums.  

    We continued to engage in small talk about flying, the
countryside below, and his plans for hiking in the mountains of the
Kaniksu range of Northern Idaho.  But to be perfectly frank, I
doubt the weather would have been a factor in our completing the
trip at this point. The airport at Bonner's Ferry had a fine
non-precision approach, and the weather at our estimated time of
arrival would, in my honest opinion (confirmed by a discreet call to
Flight Service), be above minimums and favorable for any decision
to continue.  

    "You know, with this weather system converging on us, if you
don't really have to be in Bonner's Ferry till noon, my
recommendation is that we land and put up for the night.  The
front is fast moving cold front, and by dawn the sky will be clear
and blue."  

    "Your call," he said.  "Is there a place to land?  It look pretty
barren down there."

    "I know a small field near Coulin near the south end of Priest
Lake," I said.  I did not, however, say also that it was a seasonal
field, and closed now for the winter.  Yes, planes still come and go
now and then, and a few locals park their aircraft on the field year
round; but regular operations ended some weeks earlier.  In fact I
suspected it would be deserted by now.  I was right. 

    We taxied to a spot at the edge of the field, and I shut down.

    "Look," I said, "field operations are closed right now, but I have
a thermos of coffee, some sandwiches, some peanut butter, and
plenty of water.  I always come prepared for unplanned stops."
"Fine," he responded, "I'm a light eater. But with rain on the way, I
know we're not going to sleep under the wing. And there are no
structures hereabouts.  And I don't see any foldout bunks. So
what's the plan?"  

    He was right, of course.  The airplane was not designed as an
overnight accommodation. "Well, I've always been able to make do
with the aisle, but then that's when I'm by myself. I know it's tight
quarters, but it beats the seats."  

    As we talked, I undid my seat belt.  Again he complained that he
could not release his.  "How do you get this thing to work," he said
fumbling now with the buckle. "Here, let me," I offered, aroused
now by the prospect of bringing this young man to release. 

    My hands slipped around the buckle below which his beautiful
male prominence was now pressing against the back of my left
hand.  I pretended that it was stuck, and jiggled it a bit more. Then
with my fingers I worked my way around and under the buckle,
pressing down on his hardness, clearly with no resistance on his
part to my efforts.  "It's hard to release," I said still jiggling my
fingers under the still latched belt.  "You're right," he said, "it's
definitely hard."  Our eyes met, and immediately but tacitly grasped
the true meaning of our last ambiguous exchange. 

    I finally "succeeded" in loosening the buckle, and slipped both
ends across his thighs, which I patted triumphantly and said
"Success!" 

    "Thanks," he responded.  

    Hmmm, for what, I wondered. 

    By the time we completed our survival class "dinner," the
darkness and a light rain had arrived, and I was eager to "get to
sleep." "You can have the aisle," I said. "I'll try to get a little
shut-eye in this seat."  

    "Hey, no need. We can both make the best of the aisle space.
It'll be tight, but there's room enough here for the two of us.  I
have my bag for a pillow, and you have me as yours."  

    Wow!  An invitation if ever I heard one.  My hesitation
effectively transmitted back to him my correct interpretation of his
last statement. "Well, that just might work," I said.  "Good," as he
proceeded to settle in with his bag under he head near the cockpit -
a place name which held the promise of more than just flight
instruments.

    At the rear end of the aisle, I knelt down, removed my sneakers,
and crouched down in an effort to move into the position suggested
by my passenger.  By this time he had positioned himself on his
back with his head on his travel bag, and his legs spread out
beneath the seats on either side of the small aisle.  The only
"obvious" pillow was the bulge which for the past couple of hours
had been the object of my attentions and desires.  I slipped into a
reclining position, settling the back of my head on the front of his
jeans.  "I hope this is going to be soft enough for you," he said with
a grin on his face and a twinkle in his voice.  "I hope not," I
responded.  I could almost feel the twinge in my pillow yell out: "I
hope not too."

    We stayed in this position for some time, strangely continuing
our small talk of things vaguely related to the great northwest.  I
occasionally shifted my position to where my head ultimately came
to rest face down in his crotch.  

    Our small talk gradually ended, and I could feel an occasional
throbbing in his crotch, less than an inch away from my face.  I
suspect he enjoyed consciously causing the muscular contractions
that translated to my receptive cheeks.  I moved my mouth over his
fly.  Some of his ample basket worked its way in. By this time, my
own hardness got to know the intimate hardness of the floor
designed by Cessna engineers. 

    "You know," he said, "the cold front's not hear yet.  This
humidity is getting to me. You wouldn't mind if I slipped out of
these jeans, would you?"  Did I mind?!!!

    The measure of his moves were those of an experienced stripper,
facing me and with his hands moving over his body in an enchanted
and enchanting way. He finally doffed his jeans and shirt, standing
(stooping, really) in the aisle in a clean pair of white cotton Calvin
Klein briefs, now strained to their design tensile strength by the
hardness of his ample equipment. 

    "That's better," he said.  "Much better, I echoed."   He dropped
again to the aisle floor. "Now try that," he said; "see if your not a
little more comfortable with cotton than with denim."  

    I followed suit (pardon the pun) and stripped but not to my
briefs but to my condition of nature. "I hope it doesn't bother you
that I have no underwear on;  but it is hot, and I often sleep this
way."  "No prob," he responded.  "But pillows should be clothed,
don't you think?," he grinned.  Again I assumed the position
offered to me for "a good night's sleep." 

    My recollection of what followed slips past the point of rational
recall.  I can distinctly remember, though, adopting my original
starting position, the back of my head resting the fly of his white
cotton briefs.  I can even remember (after a decent few minutes of
restraint) turning my head so that once again my face was full into
Rob's magnificent basketful.  I gradually came to the unexpected
realization that Rob had fallen asleep. 

    We remained in this position for a period I won't even hazard to
guess.  But what stands out - a carefully chosen verb - in my
memory was an overwhelming erotic spell in which time seemed to
stop in an erotic still life.  Still, that is, all but for the rhythmic
throbbing which continued in the white cotton beneath my
entranced face. 

    At one point - almost as if I'd actually fallen asleep myself and
now instinctively certain that Rob had actually done so - I jerked
awake, aware of the building crescendo of orgasmic spasms beneath
me.  My mouth was virtually resting on his penis, and I was frozen
in time and space.  My mind reeled as Rob's hot, sleeping, male
body convulsed repeatedly, spurting out globs and globs of hot,
sticky male fluids which crept across and through the thin white
cotton that separated his engorged cock from my hungry lips.  At
first the wonderful musky smell of Rob's semen wafted across my
senses;  and then the even more wonderful taste of fresh male juice
made it to my lips and tongue.  

    By now I could not maintain my frozen pose, and my mouth
cupped hungrily around his saturated pouch.  I sucked the sweet
liquid from the white cotton till it seemed I sucked his briefs
completely free of the semen which moments ago Rob had
unconsciously ejaculated into them.  

    With the satin feel of his hot boy cream on my tongue, I past the
point of no return in my own sexual ecstacy, and indistinctly
visualize myself convulsing in my own ejaculatory spasms till
exhaustion emptied my mind and my body.

    I don't think I changed positions after that, but remained where
Rob had climaxed.  I could not figure out how it could have been
that all this could have happened with Rob still sleeping like a
baby.  

    In this position and in this condition I must have fallen asleep,
only later to wake to the brightness of the morning sun through the
windows of the cockpit, and a sucking sound below me. I rubbed my
eyes, turned, and saw Rob, naked, his face resting on my crotch. 
Somehow we had reversed our positions, and I found myself in his
white Calvin Klein's that the night before served as my pillow and
now served as his.  He had obviously woken before me, and
discovered the delights of a face in a throbbing crotch.  

    I know it sounds strange, but all I could think of saying was: "Did
you sleep well?"  

    "Wonderful, just wonderful," he answered.   

    As he spoke, and I could see where he had been sucking at my
crotch, and the familiar wet splotch where my cock strained against
the front of the briefs.  

    "Sleeping in the country is delicious."  His lips were still
glistening wet with the semen that I must have ejaculated into his
briefs just a bit before waking.  I could feel my cock sloshing
around in what remained of my cum. 

    He smiled, and seeing my bewilderment said with a curious look
said:  "I woke during the night and thought you might be cold after
the front went through.  So I slipped out of these, and slipped you
into them to stay warm.  But I'm afraid you had a wet dream during
the night. Looks like our first stop at Bonner's will be the laundry." 

    Then after a moment, he dropped his face again to the bulge in
the briefs I woke up wearing, and said:  "Well, we should clean
these as best we can before taking them to the laundry, don't you
think?"  And he went back to sucking the cum-wet white cotton 
pouch.

    - Erostos:062995

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