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Night Flight to Bonner's Ferry (mm)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Night Flight to Bonner's Ferry
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
making it. 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
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 [|-)]
observer of the younger male members of my personal society. For
me there has 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 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 were ready to go. I
made sure the doors were shut and locked, yelled "clear" to the
empty field next the plane and 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 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, we more than
they should be on the body in the seat to my right, and the physical
stirrings in 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
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 seatbelt. 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.
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.
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 remark. "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 tinkle in his voice. "I hope not," I
responded. I could almost feel the twinge in my pillow yell out: "I
hope not either."
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 these muscular
contractions which 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
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 to sleep.
In this position we remained 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 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 the orgasmic
spasms beneath me. My mouth was virtually resting on his penis,
but I was frozen to the spot. 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 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, sleeping face resting
on my crotch. We had somehow 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 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.
-1995/Aristos
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