From: an667541@anon.penet.fi (erostos1)
Reply-To: an667541@anon.penet.fi
Date: Wed, 21 Aug 1996 09:40:56 UTC
Subject: "Second Cup of Coffee"

                       "The Second Cup of Coffee"

   An hour after takeoff I began to regret that second cup of coffee I
had at the airport restaurant, and the en-route turbulence that was
correctly forecast for this segment of our trip made me decidedly
uncomfortable. I knew I could not last the three or so hours remaining
before we were to land.  Although I had the standard small male urinal
no charter jock would take off without, circumstances often limited its
use except in extreme situations. What made me opt in favor of it use in
this situation was the hot young guy in the right seat, to whom I was
physically attracted the moment he arrived at the airport an hour
earlier. Early 20's, I'd guess, light brown hair, swimmers build, and
poured into a pair of 501's so perfectly that his bulge drew my
attention as often as the panel instruments.

   I looked over and said: "We've got a small problem," and went on to
describe my discomfort and consequent need to use the bottle.  I
explained that the autopilot was down for repairs, and that I would need
his help in holding the plane straight and level while I attended to
nature.  His insecurity and the continuing turbulence, however, quickly
demonstrated his inability to do this.

   Unable to take my hands off the controls, we flew along in silence
for a while.  Finally I said that I thought we might have to land to
avoid an embarrassing accident.  His response to this suggestion was
rapid, almost rehearsed.

   "Tell you what," he said, "I think I can play a supporting roll."  He
went on to say that while I handled the airplane, he could facilitate
the urination process.  "I guess so," was my rather stupid reaction to
his offer, whereupon he reached for the bottle and my fly in a pair of
deliberate moves that made we wonder how often he practiced them.

   He first pulled the seat belt upward a bit to have access to the
buttons of my fly, then proceeded to open them all.  My thoughts began
to run wild as his searching fingers entered my jeans to locate my
penis.  He was undoubtedly fumbling for the fly in my white Calvins, and
finding none said:  "I guess you're an 'over-the-top' guy, eh?"
Whereupon he moved from cupping my balls to fingering the top of the
waist band, pulling it down so that my penis could access the urinal
opening.   What with the pressure from my bladder and my mind out of
control at the thoughts of this hot, young guy doing this to me, my
erection was complete and obvious.

   "We have a little problem here," he said.  "Unless you can get that
thing down a notch or two, you'll be peeing uphill into this thing -- and
that doesn't bode well for your clothes or the seat of this airplane."
I had no intelligent response, and as best I could I tilted forward just
enough to achieve a level entry.  Success soon followed, and I let go a
sigh of relief.  But rather than corking the urinal and returning it to
the floor behind us, he said: "I think I'm gonna have to use this too,
if you don't mind."  "No, go ahead," I said, almost forgetting for the
moment that my rock hard cock was sticking up out of my fly.

   He quickly proceeded to open his fly, and insert his semi-hard uncut
penis into the urinal, making the familiar grunts of relief as he did
so.  Finishing, he pulled out, corked the bottle, and placed in behind
us."

   Leaving his own penis sticking out, he said: "Here, let me help you
get back inside;" and then he proceeded to pull my briefs up over my
rigid penis, with regrettable success.  His bungled attempts to button
my fly brought his fingers into repeated contact with my cock.  The
jerking of the airplane and the fumbling of his fingers were so
stimulating that both my cock and the airplane were having similar
difficulties resuming a straight and level attitude.  He was persistent,
however, and gave me the distinct impression that he did not find the
repeated efforts in any way disagreeable;  and I was able to communicate
the same thought to him.

   "Maybe this will take you mind off the turbulence," he said, and he
slipped his hand down the front of my briefs and cupped my balls,
squeezing his fingers around my scrotum, the heal of his hand rubbing up
and down against the underside of my shaft.  I groaned in agreement.
Then with his other hand, he took his own now erect penis, and began to
stroke it deliberately, the glans now a shiny purple dome sitting
majestically atop his rigid manpole.

   For an impossibly long time, he kept up both his movements and our
respective male instruments, during which time the turbulence outside
the airplane gave way to the turbulence entirely within it.  With the
airplane now making fewer demands upon my attentions and my hands, I
slipped my right hand over to spell him on his work in the right seat.
The change of stroke brought him quickly to orgasm, and his ejaculation
spurtted a foot or more over his lap and back on my hand and arm.

   After what seemed like only a few seconds of recovery, he said:
"Here, let's not have your cum get all over the instruments," and he
picked up the pace to the point where I could hold off no longer.  He
cupped my cock so that I shot my entire wad into his hands rather than
in the air and onto my clothes.  As my throbbing subsided, he withdrew
his hands, now filled with my semen, and said:  "Guess there no room
left in the bottle for this," and he proceeded to bring his still cupped
hands to his mouth to be licked clean.  He proceeded to swallow
virtually all of my semen that he caught in his hand, leaving his hands
completely clean.  "Nice," he grinned.

   At this, I brought my right hand to my mouth, to lap up his semen
that landed on my arm and hand.  "Nice," I added.

   For some reason, neither of us buttoned our flys till after we
landed.

       Erostos, 1996