I'd left Edmonton two hours earlier than planned, knowing that the cold front and snow forecast for central Alberta would influence local weather for the next several days. My Piper Saratoga had been checked and fueled, and I was determined to get as far south and east as I could before being overtaken by the front.
Instinctively I knew that being overtaken in Regina or Minot or Bismarck or Pierre was successively preferable to being caught in a small airplane in the western steppes of Canada in November.
Apart from a urinal/coffee/gas/weather/urinal stop in Regina I spent the entire day barely one step ahead of the front. Regrettably the front did not stop for rest, and must have known that I could fly no farther that day than Minot, my airport of entry to the U.S.
Notwithstanding - and perhaps precisely because of the autopilot on my Saratoga - I'd been close to being ravaged by the lusty arms of Morpheus when I touched down at Minot International Airport, so late in the day that US Customs had hours earlier abandoned the field for the day. Quite possibly they sought the warmth and camaraderie of a local bar or pub, or the hearth of home. In any event, despite its impressive name, Minot was at this time of day and this time of year an uncontrolled field, meaning that it had no control tower to manage the flow of air traffic in and out of the field. And this time of year, traffic was light.
I landed C4549X and taxied up to one of the several painted "customs" circles on the tarmac where private international flights must wait to be "cleared" by customs officials. N2490R, a Piper Malibu, must have landed just before me, since the pilot and two passengers - like me, and as required by US federal rules - were waiting in their airplane in its own separate customs circle. We must remain there till cleared.
The "N", ("November") at the beginning of a plane's identifier indicates that the United State is the country of registration, just as "C" ("Charlie") at the from of my airplane's identifier told all who cared to notice that I was registered by Transport Canada as Canadian.
By this time, my bladder was dismayed to learn from operations that it would take the better part of an hour - and a surcharge in US currency for the after-hours visit by custom officials - before I would be able to stagger to the urinal in the operations building.
I was sufficiently afraid that my penis might turn into an uncontrolled tower of its own that I defied both custom and customs by slipping out of the airplane for a leak, being careful to remain within the white painted circle to which I was confined by US law. As my abdominal cavity adjusted to my massive release of body fluids, I noticed 25 feet or so off to my right the young pilot of N2490R managing his own "tower" in much the same way.
"I suppose I was a jerk for having that last cup of coffee in Regina," I yelled across the short distance that separated us, as we both continued to water the tarmac.
"I earned my jerk status at the coffee shop in Saskatoon," he responded with a grin that expressed youth and humor. We zipped up more or less at the same time and still within our separate painted circles. "I guess that makes us members of the same circle jerk club, eh?" he said with a boyish grin.
I laughed audibly, as I pictured the young man sitting with his boyhood chums and all whacking off so everyone could watch and whack together. It was reassuring to know that young group male sex is not an exclusively Canadian pastime. He added: "Yup, but now it's time to pull that little fella back into his little cotton cock-pit, right?"
I laughed again, and he patted his crotch and sighed. "See ya inside, guy," he yelled before stepping back into the Malibu.
I chuckled, said something un-memorable, then retreated to my plane. Alone now as I waited for Customs to arrive, I pondered our short exchange and the extra attention we'd just given to our shared maleness. The simile of the "cock-pit" was as old as flying, but hearing it from this hot looking young charter jock stirred something inside of me.
He was slightly under six feet in height, no more that 180 pounds, about 33" at the waist, and looked to be in his early twenties; but these droll specifications slipped into insignificance against the background of the magnificent 7"+ shaft that I'd seen moments ago retracted into to the warmth and comfort of his 501's.
Having no passengers to afford digression from these meditations, I decided simply to enjoy the slight arousal that this ambiguous exchange had spawned in my groin. I'd been on the ground at Minot less than ten minutes, and already I shifted the core of my self perceptions from that of being a pilot to that of being male, and clearly in need of a form of relief that my last trip to the tarmac could not provide. I wondered and wished that the same were true of my American counterpart. For whatever reason, probably somehow grounded on hope, I held off treating myself to the traditional form of release traditional among charter jocks stranded and alone in North Dakota in late November.
My recollections of the ensuing hour or so flip by my mind's thumb with no clear order of occurrence. Customs came and went; and the next scene which made it past short-term memory was of Brad (as he had subsequently introduced himself) and me pouring over the computer display from the National Weather Service, and an assortment of low altitude flight charts lying on the adjacent table. Invoking this service by a DUAT terminal in the now deserted flight operations room, Brad and I soon discovered that his trip to Minneapolis and mine to Boston were on indefinite hold for at least twenty-four hours, courtesy of the Alberta Clipper.
His passengers - who turned out to be honest-to-goodness Eskimos from the Northwest Territories - had left for more sensible quarters at the "American Inn" just off the field, alert now to the inevitability of having to spend an unplanned day in North Dakota. What Eskimos might wish to do in this middle American college town is beyond my powers to imagine; but I knew that I would have to come up with answers for myself than were more stimulating that staring at weather systems as reported in NWS code.
Engaging my sexual auto(erotic)pilot, I launched into a string of double entendre that should smoke out any companionable interests of his own on the general theme of male intimacy.
"I could use an approaching warm front just about now," I said, again in pursuit of a double "respondre" from Brad.
Brad's hands gripped the front corners of the computer terminal as though he were used to being in charge of all within his reach, and acting as if he had not even heard my last and meteorologically irrelevant comment. "Well, from the looks of it, you and I are the only warm fronts in sight," he grinned, and moved over to the map table.
I glowed internally at his response, as if it had been a signal of recognition, coded for support and encouragement. No way would I not follow up with more. "Converging fronts could make for a fun day, eh Brad?," I offered.
"Yup, and there's no way we're going to escape this mother," he said. The frontal system extends all the way back to BC, and it's close and heading this. Low pressure, cold temperatures, and lots of moisture. Snow, snow, and more snow."
He shook his head and said: "Well, we've sure been here before haven't we, Chris." Nodding assent, I found myself very pleased indeed at having to spend a little time with this cute young American flyer.
The decor of Minot flight operations and "pilots' lounge," in addition to what we needed to plan and file IFR flight plans, consisted of a Pepsi machine, a "snack" machine, a TV, and a rather broken-in/down couch.
After rites of introduction most pilots tend to display in such circumstances, I learned that Brad also was a charter pilot, ferrying two Eskimo entrepreneurs from a village near Great Slave Lake to a meeting with their venture capitalists in Minneapolis to discuss financing for a northland casino. Brad was based in Duluth, some 800 kilometers (500 miles) or so west of my home base at "CYSB" (Sudbury, Ontario).
"A pocket of high pressure is driving this front," Brad said as if in mocking meditation of maps and weather. The "front" of his Levi's now rested at the right front corner of the map table so that the bulging "pocket" of his crotch rested prominently at the table's surface clearly for my visual benefit.
Adopting a similar posture at the table's left front, I traced a line with my finger from just in front of my own crotch to just in front of his, and said: "It seems to me that high pressure gradients run from about here to about here, and are building."
"You're right, Chris," he retorted, escalating the level of double entendre, "and there's considerable moisture in these two converging fronts that we're gonna have to deal with over the next twenty-four hours." "I certainly hope so," I retorted. I was amazed and delighted that Brad was playing along with such vigor in my verbal artifice, with remarks no less sexual in innuendo than they were related to flight, and equally on the money.
"See," he pointed to the monitor, "we actually have converging frontal systems, that will combine over North Dakota and inevitably result in precip. Moisture in fronts like these can build up only so far before having to release explosively."
I smiled at the image of "precip" from his "frontal system," and its "explosive release," just as I'd hoped his smile meant that he was thinking the same of mine.
Stretching his body forward now over the table's top left corner as if to point to a distant spot on the map, his well packed pouch slipped smoothly further onto the work surface. I recall that he made some reference to the trouble "occluded fronts" can cause to pilots, to which I responded that "...they only cause trouble if they get squeezed on map tables."
"Well," he chuckled openly at that last one, "the clever pilot always finds relief from occlusion." "Yeh," I retorted, "but seldom without hands-on help from Flight Service or a very good friend." He doubled up with laughter, and flopped on the couch to recover.
"You know, Chris," he said, "being from Duluth, I really know how to take care of myself in the face of advancing Canadian frontal systems."
"I'd expect no less, Brad," I quickly answered, "and since systems rarely advance from south to north, I'd need a lot of help in dealing with any front advancing into Canada from the south."
"You're in luck," he came back, "I'm a known authority on the subject, and at your service."
"Hmmmm," was all I could think to respond, and silently to myself at that.
"I'll be right back, Chris," he said pulling away from the map table, and grabbing hold of his crotch, "My body's experiencing a rapid moisture buildup and my temperature is approaching the do..,er, dew...point, so I better hit the head before I'm embarrassed by premature precip. In short, I have to take a leak. Be right back."
At the thought of any feeling this hot guy's body might be having, I said almost reflexively "I have to go too." We shuttled off to men's room together.
"Hold at Minot" m/m - Part 2
Looking down and to his right as we performed our respective bodily functions at adjacent urinals, he said with a chuckle "Well, it's comforting to know that Canadian cocks aren't as mythically huge as the stories that go around Duluth."
"We have ways of making such stories true, though," pulling back on my cock and pressing in on my pubic bone so that it more or less projected out straight and semi-hard. "It takes lots of practice, however." With a final shake, I stuffed my manhood back through my fly and backed away so that I could watch him.
Finished now with the overt reason for standing next to me with his cock sticking out through the fly of his jeans, he turned and with a gesture similar to my own pulled back on his shaft so that it protruded out and up, gyrating his hips and wagging his throbbing dick much in the manner of a stripper. "How's that," he asked. "Aren't I a quick learner? Maybe I'm just very observant and have paid very good attention during my visits to Norma Jean's when I've held over at CYSB. Now all I need is that practice you were talking about to be really good."
I reeled at his last statement, my mind's eyes drawn to the popular hotel bar back home in Sudbury where male strippers often held forth, and sometimes even fifth. Particularly since, to make a little extra money, I'd performed at Norma Jean's myself, and for all I knew was one of those whose performances made up part of Brad's sexual education.
As I was washing my hands, trying to process this last surprising bit of information about Brad, I head a coin being processed by one of the condom machines hanging on the wall. I turned and saw Brad withdrawing a three-pack from the chute. "Never tried this kind," he said. "It's light blue and blueberry flavored."
"I doubt you could fly solo with one of those and still taste the blueberry," I pointed out, "unless you bend in the middle like some of those triple-jointed performers at Norma Jean's. You're going to need something or someone else to slip it over to really get the true flavor of the product," I offered helpfully. "Besides, I've always found that what the product is designed to contain tastes ever so much better than what it's coated with." Let him think that one over.
With a responsive grim, he took one of the three rubbers that came with his purchase and slipped into the back pocket of my jeans, and patting my butt said: "Here, Chris, you never know when you might need a quick snack. Don't say I never gave you anything."
"I'm hoping," completing his thought, "that that's not all you're going to give me, Brad."
"That's what I'm hoping too," he smiled as we withdrew to the hallway back to the pilots' lounge.
Brad again called up the National Weather Service on the computer for another weather brief, producing a printout of the categorical outlook for the Minot area. Handing it over to me he said: "I've seen better briefs at Norma Jean's."
"No brief from the NWS could have a convective outlook that even comes close to the convection occurring in the briefs at Norma Jean's," I responded. "Who knows, I might even have been caught it one myself from time to time, yet I survived to tell you about it."
Our eyes now met in that knowing way that left no doubt about how our conversation should be translated for true meaning; though it was equally clear that the real weather situation was bad and worsening. "In any event," he went on, "we're likely to be here for the duration." And as if there were no nexus to his next thought, he went on: "Ever been inside a Malibu, Chris?"
"Nope, just seen them from the outside," I answered. "How do they handle?"
"Well, you know, they're a lot like a hot young guy really." Slipping his hand down so that it cupped his bulge he went on: "Responds better when you're sensitive on the stick."
My own stick was now vibrating in harmony with his account of how this airplane - and my own male body - was designed and functioned.
"Especially," he went on, "in the landing configuration, if you don't want to have to shoot the missed approach, the airplane has to be trimmed just so: mixture rich (as mine was getting to be!), trim and flaps set, manifold pressure up (ahh, yes), and making sure you include the old "ball and bank" indicator in your scan (as I was doing during our entire enigmatic dialogue). Just like a lot of guys - big, but responsive when the need arises." Our entire exchange had been certainly scanned our "balls," with both of us no doubt "banking" that it would lead to something more.
"Well, Brad, my need has surely arisen. I've been kinda hoping you'll be responsive by giving me a hands-on tour of... of the Malibu. We certainly have the time, wouldn't you say?"
"You're on. Let's go," he said snatching his jacket and tossing mine to me.
Pilots have an expression that describes the dreadful conditions that had settled over Minot International Airport: "WOXOF." It means: "(W)indefinite ceiling, (O)zero, (X)visibility, (O)zero, and (F)fog." We encountered "woxof" as we left the warmth of operations and struck out for aircraft parking. Once again my mind toyed with its tonal equivalence to "rocks-off," which was now more central to my interests and arousing to my body than the weather or his Malibu.
We trudged through the now freezing drizzle to the where the airplane was parked near the approach end of Runway 8. As we walked, Brad pointed out the fuel sump under the right wing. "Before getting off in this bird, you have be sure to drain a little precum from the fuel cocks. Discovering water in the fuel during takeoff thrusting could lead to premature ... er, well... you know what I mean".
" I get your point, or least hope to," I responded.
I slipped inside the big single in front of Brad, who turned to shut the door - and world out of our lives for the moment. I felt like we had just moved into a little uncontrolled airspace inside the Malibu. "A perfect place," I said examining the spacious interior of the airplane, "to practice recovery from unusual attitudes without having to take off .. anything that is but our duds."
Brad standing behind me slipped his hands on my hips, his firm strong fingers groping forward around my waist to couple at my pubic rim. He pulled my body into his, letting his cupped palms drop down to encase my throbbing prominence.
"Well, it looks like my hands-on training in this bird begins with "holding" procedures, eh Brad?, I commented in low and approving tones.
"You won't have to hold long," he went on, "before I clear you for the approach and your descent to your final approach fix. In bad weather like this we always have to be wary of encountering a microburst at low altitude. I hope you can control it."
My swollen member always risked micro-bursting when massaged by hot young male fingers, but I declared: "Leave control to me, just teach."
"I think I can demonstrate just how sensitive one has to be with the stick during the approach," he went on, now brushing the palms of both hands down to the insides of my thighs, and up again to my crotch. The fingers of his right hand found the snaps on my fly, and popping open the first three, migrated into the interior of my white cotton cock-pit to find the instrument on which his sensitivity training was to be performed. Eventually his whole right hand grasped my erect shaft, pulling it through the fly of my briefs and holding, (should I say manipulating it) it like the control stick of an early airplane.
"First you have to milk off the speed of this bird as you initiate the approach," he instructed, as his left hand now found and cupped my balls. "Slight corrections, left and right, and up and down, will be required throughout the entire approach, if you want a really stabilized let-down." My eyes closed. Now in my "ready to learn" mode, I sensed my body moving more in the direction of a rather unstabilized approach.
"Pull flaps early in the approach," he said, pulling back on my cock which was now quivering in his hand," and lower gear well in advance of crossing the threshold." He undid the top button my of jeans, sliding my jeans and briefs gently down the glide slope to my ankles.
"Anticipate the ground effect, and bleed off any extra speed you may be carrying after crossing the middle marker...", (his fingers now moving slowly back from my balls and over my perineum) "...and before crossing the inner marker..." (his fingers now caressing the sensitive gateway of my anal canal). "Keep your elevation up as you cross the threshold...", he went on, one finger now probing inside my body in search for my prostate much like a flyer hunting for ground in zero-zero conditions.
Dexterously he slipped a blueberry condom onto my penis quivering in his hand, and lithely moved around to his knees on the floor of the aisle in front of me.
"Make sure the gear is now down and locked," and I felt the uniquely arousing sensations of hungry fingers unrolling thin rubber down the shaft of my cock mimicking moves of one of my favorite forms of autoerotic touching.
"From here on you're right back to your first lesson in flying, and it becomes entirely a matter of what feels right." He slipped his lips over my light blue penis and began to milk my speed in anticipation of touch down. Slowly and steadily my boystick responded to his expert handling, and my giant building spasm moving my body up to and over the edge of the sexual microburst; I was committed to the landing.
A convective outlook for conditions in the general vicinity of my genitals was imminent. My body fashioned its only powerful male jet stream, starting with one dry, thumping pulse somewhere near the magic wand Brad jiggled several inches up inside my hot male butt sheath. This was then followed by spasmic convulsions that now began to fill up the soft blueberry sump covering my penis with huge amounts of my creamy white semen.
We stayed in this position until my pulsing cumtool spewed its final drops of malejuice, and until even later Brad had come up for breath.
"I've always loved blueberry," he said with a smile. Slipping the half-filled rubber from my detumescing dick, and falling back in the ample aisle of the big Malibu, he slipped his own engorged member out through the fly of his jeans. He then proceeded to slip the condom full of my north country boycream onto his considerable cock, and with the speed and grace of one of Norma Jean's best, began to stroke himself, no doubt fantasizing about what he had just done to my body and what he was about to do with the still warm boycream it had produced.
"I have to demonstrate that the pupil has learned, don't I Brad?" "The 'HSI' (Horizontal Situation Indicator) shows that you're a little off course, and carrying a little too much speed. Here, let me milk it a little for you." Dropping to my knees, I planted my lips over the light blue condom, all blueberry taste now gone. I became hard the minute my tongue felt the tip already filled with a large supply of my own semen, and soon to be filled further with Brad's.
I pulled his butt cheeks toward my face, forcing his cock deep into my throat. I spread his butt cheeks with my left hand to make way for the grand entrance of my right middle finger into his manhole to trigger an eruption of his volcanic prostate. He was clearly coming in too hot for a graceful landing, and began to float down the runway in the ground effect. Finally his hard landing dropped him to the surface with a jolt, his sexual convection now quick and powerful. My tongue and mouth could now feel the tip of the little blue bag being pelted by the hammering thrusts of his hot male fluids, propelled out of his sperm slit to join with mine to make a perfect mix of US and Canadian spunk.
As he rolled to a stop, I slipped the rubber of his cock and held it up like a trophy for our just completed landings. "Well," I said, "now that we've got two good landings in the bag, I think we should schedule more practice with the approach.
"This time, we'll practice landings in wet conditions," he said, turning the condom over so that our cum supply poured out on our exhausted bodies. We hugged, our bellies sliding around on each other with the musky lubricant we had been able to produce in class.
We laughed uproariously, dispelling the bleakness of the Minot ramp to oblivion.
Instinctively I knew that being overtaken in Regina or Minot or Bismarck or Pierre was successively preferable to being caught in a small airplane in the western steppes of Canada in November.
Apart from a urinal/coffee/gas/weather/urinal stop in Regina I spent the entire day barely one step ahead of the front. Regrettably the front did not stop for rest, and must have known that I could fly no farther that day than Minot, my airport of entry to the U.S.
Notwithstanding - and perhaps precisely because of the autopilot on my Saratoga - I'd been close to being ravaged by the lusty arms of Morpheus when I touched down at Minot International Airport, so late in the day that US Customs had hours earlier abandoned the field for the day. Quite possibly they sought the warmth and camaraderie of a local bar or pub, or the hearth of home. In any event, despite its impressive name, Minot was at this time of day and this time of year an uncontrolled field, meaning that it had no control tower to manage the flow of air traffic in and out of the field. And this time of year, traffic was light.
I landed C4549X and taxied up to one of the several painted "customs" circles on the tarmac where private international flights must wait to be "cleared" by customs officials. N2490R, a Piper Malibu, must have landed just before me, since the pilot and two passengers - like me, and as required by US federal rules - were waiting in their airplane in its own separate customs circle. We must remain there till cleared.
The "N", ("November") at the beginning of a plane's identifier indicates that the United State is the country of registration, just as "C" ("Charlie") at the from of my airplane's identifier told all who cared to notice that I was registered by Transport Canada as Canadian.
By this time, my bladder was dismayed to learn from operations that it would take the better part of an hour - and a surcharge in US currency for the after-hours visit by custom officials - before I would be able to stagger to the urinal in the operations building.
I was sufficiently afraid that my penis might turn into an uncontrolled tower of its own that I defied both custom and customs by slipping out of the airplane for a leak, being careful to remain within the white painted circle to which I was confined by US law. As my abdominal cavity adjusted to my massive release of body fluids, I noticed 25 feet or so off to my right the young pilot of N2490R managing his own "tower" in much the same way.
"I suppose I was a jerk for having that last cup of coffee in Regina," I yelled across the short distance that separated us, as we both continued to water the tarmac.
"I earned my jerk status at the coffee shop in Saskatoon," he responded with a grin that expressed youth and humor. We zipped up more or less at the same time and still within our separate painted circles. "I guess that makes us members of the same circle jerk club, eh?" he said with a boyish grin.
I laughed audibly, as I pictured the young man sitting with his boyhood chums and all whacking off so everyone could watch and whack together. It was reassuring to know that young group male sex is not an exclusively Canadian pastime. He added: "Yup, but now it's time to pull that little fella back into his little cotton cock-pit, right?"
I laughed again, and he patted his crotch and sighed. "See ya inside, guy," he yelled before stepping back into the Malibu.
I chuckled, said something un-memorable, then retreated to my plane. Alone now as I waited for Customs to arrive, I pondered our short exchange and the extra attention we'd just given to our shared maleness. The simile of the "cock-pit" was as old as flying, but hearing it from this hot looking young charter jock stirred something inside of me.
He was slightly under six feet in height, no more that 180 pounds, about 33" at the waist, and looked to be in his early twenties; but these droll specifications slipped into insignificance against the background of the magnificent 7"+ shaft that I'd seen moments ago retracted into to the warmth and comfort of his 501's.
Having no passengers to afford digression from these meditations, I decided simply to enjoy the slight arousal that this ambiguous exchange had spawned in my groin. I'd been on the ground at Minot less than ten minutes, and already I shifted the core of my self perceptions from that of being a pilot to that of being male, and clearly in need of a form of relief that my last trip to the tarmac could not provide. I wondered and wished that the same were true of my American counterpart. For whatever reason, probably somehow grounded on hope, I held off treating myself to the traditional form of release traditional among charter jocks stranded and alone in North Dakota in late November.
My recollections of the ensuing hour or so flip by my mind's thumb with no clear order of occurrence. Customs came and went; and the next scene which made it past short-term memory was of Brad (as he had subsequently introduced himself) and me pouring over the computer display from the National Weather Service, and an assortment of low altitude flight charts lying on the adjacent table. Invoking this service by a DUAT terminal in the now deserted flight operations room, Brad and I soon discovered that his trip to Minneapolis and mine to Boston were on indefinite hold for at least twenty-four hours, courtesy of the Alberta Clipper.
His passengers - who turned out to be honest-to-goodness Eskimos from the Northwest Territories - had left for more sensible quarters at the "American Inn" just off the field, alert now to the inevitability of having to spend an unplanned day in North Dakota. What Eskimos might wish to do in this middle American college town is beyond my powers to imagine; but I knew that I would have to come up with answers for myself than were more stimulating that staring at weather systems as reported in NWS code.
Engaging my sexual auto(erotic)pilot, I launched into a string of double entendre that should smoke out any companionable interests of his own on the general theme of male intimacy.
"I could use an approaching warm front just about now," I said, again in pursuit of a double "respondre" from Brad.
Brad's hands gripped the front corners of the computer terminal as though he were used to being in charge of all within his reach, and acting as if he had not even heard my last and meteorologically irrelevant comment. "Well, from the looks of it, you and I are the only warm fronts in sight," he grinned, and moved over to the map table.
I glowed internally at his response, as if it had been a signal of recognition, coded for support and encouragement. No way would I not follow up with more. "Converging fronts could make for a fun day, eh Brad?," I offered.
"Yup, and there's no way we're going to escape this mother," he said. The frontal system extends all the way back to BC, and it's close and heading this. Low pressure, cold temperatures, and lots of moisture. Snow, snow, and more snow."
He shook his head and said: "Well, we've sure been here before haven't we, Chris." Nodding assent, I found myself very pleased indeed at having to spend a little time with this cute young American flyer.
The decor of Minot flight operations and "pilots' lounge," in addition to what we needed to plan and file IFR flight plans, consisted of a Pepsi machine, a "snack" machine, a TV, and a rather broken-in/down couch.
After rites of introduction most pilots tend to display in such circumstances, I learned that Brad also was a charter pilot, ferrying two Eskimo entrepreneurs from a village near Great Slave Lake to a meeting with their venture capitalists in Minneapolis to discuss financing for a northland casino. Brad was based in Duluth, some 800 kilometers (500 miles) or so west of my home base at "CYSB" (Sudbury, Ontario).
"A pocket of high pressure is driving this front," Brad said as if in mocking meditation of maps and weather. The "front" of his Levi's now rested at the right front corner of the map table so that the bulging "pocket" of his crotch rested prominently at the table's surface clearly for my visual benefit.
Adopting a similar posture at the table's left front, I traced a line with my finger from just in front of my own crotch to just in front of his, and said: "It seems to me that high pressure gradients run from about here to about here, and are building."
"You're right, Chris," he retorted, escalating the level of double entendre, "and there's considerable moisture in these two converging fronts that we're gonna have to deal with over the next twenty-four hours." "I certainly hope so," I retorted. I was amazed and delighted that Brad was playing along with such vigor in my verbal artifice, with remarks no less sexual in innuendo than they were related to flight, and equally on the money.
"See," he pointed to the monitor, "we actually have converging frontal systems, that will combine over North Dakota and inevitably result in precip. Moisture in fronts like these can build up only so far before having to release explosively."
I smiled at the image of "precip" from his "frontal system," and its "explosive release," just as I'd hoped his smile meant that he was thinking the same of mine.
Stretching his body forward now over the table's top left corner as if to point to a distant spot on the map, his well packed pouch slipped smoothly further onto the work surface. I recall that he made some reference to the trouble "occluded fronts" can cause to pilots, to which I responded that "...they only cause trouble if they get squeezed on map tables."
"Well," he chuckled openly at that last one, "the clever pilot always finds relief from occlusion." "Yeh," I retorted, "but seldom without hands-on help from Flight Service or a very good friend." He doubled up with laughter, and flopped on the couch to recover.
"You know, Chris," he said, "being from Duluth, I really know how to take care of myself in the face of advancing Canadian frontal systems."
"I'd expect no less, Brad," I quickly answered, "and since systems rarely advance from south to north, I'd need a lot of help in dealing with any front advancing into Canada from the south."
"You're in luck," he came back, "I'm a known authority on the subject, and at your service."
"Hmmmm," was all I could think to respond, and silently to myself at that.
"I'll be right back, Chris," he said pulling away from the map table, and grabbing hold of his crotch, "My body's experiencing a rapid moisture buildup and my temperature is approaching the do..,er, dew...point, so I better hit the head before I'm embarrassed by premature precip. In short, I have to take a leak. Be right back."
At the thought of any feeling this hot guy's body might be having, I said almost reflexively "I have to go too." We shuttled off to men's room together.
"Hold at Minot" m/m - Part 2
Looking down and to his right as we performed our respective bodily functions at adjacent urinals, he said with a chuckle "Well, it's comforting to know that Canadian cocks aren't as mythically huge as the stories that go around Duluth."
"We have ways of making such stories true, though," pulling back on my cock and pressing in on my pubic bone so that it more or less projected out straight and semi-hard. "It takes lots of practice, however." With a final shake, I stuffed my manhood back through my fly and backed away so that I could watch him.
Finished now with the overt reason for standing next to me with his cock sticking out through the fly of his jeans, he turned and with a gesture similar to my own pulled back on his shaft so that it protruded out and up, gyrating his hips and wagging his throbbing dick much in the manner of a stripper. "How's that," he asked. "Aren't I a quick learner? Maybe I'm just very observant and have paid very good attention during my visits to Norma Jean's when I've held over at CYSB. Now all I need is that practice you were talking about to be really good."
I reeled at his last statement, my mind's eyes drawn to the popular hotel bar back home in Sudbury where male strippers often held forth, and sometimes even fifth. Particularly since, to make a little extra money, I'd performed at Norma Jean's myself, and for all I knew was one of those whose performances made up part of Brad's sexual education.
As I was washing my hands, trying to process this last surprising bit of information about Brad, I head a coin being processed by one of the condom machines hanging on the wall. I turned and saw Brad withdrawing a three-pack from the chute. "Never tried this kind," he said. "It's light blue and blueberry flavored."
"I doubt you could fly solo with one of those and still taste the blueberry," I pointed out, "unless you bend in the middle like some of those triple-jointed performers at Norma Jean's. You're going to need something or someone else to slip it over to really get the true flavor of the product," I offered helpfully. "Besides, I've always found that what the product is designed to contain tastes ever so much better than what it's coated with." Let him think that one over.
With a responsive grim, he took one of the three rubbers that came with his purchase and slipped into the back pocket of my jeans, and patting my butt said: "Here, Chris, you never know when you might need a quick snack. Don't say I never gave you anything."
"I'm hoping," completing his thought, "that that's not all you're going to give me, Brad."
"That's what I'm hoping too," he smiled as we withdrew to the hallway back to the pilots' lounge.
Brad again called up the National Weather Service on the computer for another weather brief, producing a printout of the categorical outlook for the Minot area. Handing it over to me he said: "I've seen better briefs at Norma Jean's."
"No brief from the NWS could have a convective outlook that even comes close to the convection occurring in the briefs at Norma Jean's," I responded. "Who knows, I might even have been caught it one myself from time to time, yet I survived to tell you about it."
Our eyes now met in that knowing way that left no doubt about how our conversation should be translated for true meaning; though it was equally clear that the real weather situation was bad and worsening. "In any event," he went on, "we're likely to be here for the duration." And as if there were no nexus to his next thought, he went on: "Ever been inside a Malibu, Chris?"
"Nope, just seen them from the outside," I answered. "How do they handle?"
"Well, you know, they're a lot like a hot young guy really." Slipping his hand down so that it cupped his bulge he went on: "Responds better when you're sensitive on the stick."
My own stick was now vibrating in harmony with his account of how this airplane - and my own male body - was designed and functioned.
"Especially," he went on, "in the landing configuration, if you don't want to have to shoot the missed approach, the airplane has to be trimmed just so: mixture rich (as mine was getting to be!), trim and flaps set, manifold pressure up (ahh, yes), and making sure you include the old "ball and bank" indicator in your scan (as I was doing during our entire enigmatic dialogue). Just like a lot of guys - big, but responsive when the need arises." Our entire exchange had been certainly scanned our "balls," with both of us no doubt "banking" that it would lead to something more.
"Well, Brad, my need has surely arisen. I've been kinda hoping you'll be responsive by giving me a hands-on tour of... of the Malibu. We certainly have the time, wouldn't you say?"
"You're on. Let's go," he said snatching his jacket and tossing mine to me.
Pilots have an expression that describes the dreadful conditions that had settled over Minot International Airport: "WOXOF." It means: "(W)indefinite ceiling, (O)zero, (X)visibility, (O)zero, and (F)fog." We encountered "woxof" as we left the warmth of operations and struck out for aircraft parking. Once again my mind toyed with its tonal equivalence to "rocks-off," which was now more central to my interests and arousing to my body than the weather or his Malibu.
We trudged through the now freezing drizzle to the where the airplane was parked near the approach end of Runway 8. As we walked, Brad pointed out the fuel sump under the right wing. "Before getting off in this bird, you have be sure to drain a little precum from the fuel cocks. Discovering water in the fuel during takeoff thrusting could lead to premature ... er, well... you know what I mean".
" I get your point, or least hope to," I responded.
I slipped inside the big single in front of Brad, who turned to shut the door - and world out of our lives for the moment. I felt like we had just moved into a little uncontrolled airspace inside the Malibu. "A perfect place," I said examining the spacious interior of the airplane, "to practice recovery from unusual attitudes without having to take off .. anything that is but our duds."
Brad standing behind me slipped his hands on my hips, his firm strong fingers groping forward around my waist to couple at my pubic rim. He pulled my body into his, letting his cupped palms drop down to encase my throbbing prominence.
"Well, it looks like my hands-on training in this bird begins with "holding" procedures, eh Brad?, I commented in low and approving tones.
"You won't have to hold long," he went on, "before I clear you for the approach and your descent to your final approach fix. In bad weather like this we always have to be wary of encountering a microburst at low altitude. I hope you can control it."
My swollen member always risked micro-bursting when massaged by hot young male fingers, but I declared: "Leave control to me, just teach."
"I think I can demonstrate just how sensitive one has to be with the stick during the approach," he went on, now brushing the palms of both hands down to the insides of my thighs, and up again to my crotch. The fingers of his right hand found the snaps on my fly, and popping open the first three, migrated into the interior of my white cotton cock-pit to find the instrument on which his sensitivity training was to be performed. Eventually his whole right hand grasped my erect shaft, pulling it through the fly of my briefs and holding, (should I say manipulating it) it like the control stick of an early airplane.
"First you have to milk off the speed of this bird as you initiate the approach," he instructed, as his left hand now found and cupped my balls. "Slight corrections, left and right, and up and down, will be required throughout the entire approach, if you want a really stabilized let-down." My eyes closed. Now in my "ready to learn" mode, I sensed my body moving more in the direction of a rather unstabilized approach.
"Pull flaps early in the approach," he said, pulling back on my cock which was now quivering in his hand," and lower gear well in advance of crossing the threshold." He undid the top button my of jeans, sliding my jeans and briefs gently down the glide slope to my ankles.
"Anticipate the ground effect, and bleed off any extra speed you may be carrying after crossing the middle marker...", (his fingers now moving slowly back from my balls and over my perineum) "...and before crossing the inner marker..." (his fingers now caressing the sensitive gateway of my anal canal). "Keep your elevation up as you cross the threshold...", he went on, one finger now probing inside my body in search for my prostate much like a flyer hunting for ground in zero-zero conditions.
Dexterously he slipped a blueberry condom onto my penis quivering in his hand, and lithely moved around to his knees on the floor of the aisle in front of me.
"Make sure the gear is now down and locked," and I felt the uniquely arousing sensations of hungry fingers unrolling thin rubber down the shaft of my cock mimicking moves of one of my favorite forms of autoerotic touching.
"From here on you're right back to your first lesson in flying, and it becomes entirely a matter of what feels right." He slipped his lips over my light blue penis and began to milk my speed in anticipation of touch down. Slowly and steadily my boystick responded to his expert handling, and my giant building spasm moving my body up to and over the edge of the sexual microburst; I was committed to the landing.
A convective outlook for conditions in the general vicinity of my genitals was imminent. My body fashioned its only powerful male jet stream, starting with one dry, thumping pulse somewhere near the magic wand Brad jiggled several inches up inside my hot male butt sheath. This was then followed by spasmic convulsions that now began to fill up the soft blueberry sump covering my penis with huge amounts of my creamy white semen.
We stayed in this position until my pulsing cumtool spewed its final drops of malejuice, and until even later Brad had come up for breath.
"I've always loved blueberry," he said with a smile. Slipping the half-filled rubber from my detumescing dick, and falling back in the ample aisle of the big Malibu, he slipped his own engorged member out through the fly of his jeans. He then proceeded to slip the condom full of my north country boycream onto his considerable cock, and with the speed and grace of one of Norma Jean's best, began to stroke himself, no doubt fantasizing about what he had just done to my body and what he was about to do with the still warm boycream it had produced.
"I have to demonstrate that the pupil has learned, don't I Brad?" "The 'HSI' (Horizontal Situation Indicator) shows that you're a little off course, and carrying a little too much speed. Here, let me milk it a little for you." Dropping to my knees, I planted my lips over the light blue condom, all blueberry taste now gone. I became hard the minute my tongue felt the tip already filled with a large supply of my own semen, and soon to be filled further with Brad's.
I pulled his butt cheeks toward my face, forcing his cock deep into my throat. I spread his butt cheeks with my left hand to make way for the grand entrance of my right middle finger into his manhole to trigger an eruption of his volcanic prostate. He was clearly coming in too hot for a graceful landing, and began to float down the runway in the ground effect. Finally his hard landing dropped him to the surface with a jolt, his sexual convection now quick and powerful. My tongue and mouth could now feel the tip of the little blue bag being pelted by the hammering thrusts of his hot male fluids, propelled out of his sperm slit to join with mine to make a perfect mix of US and Canadian spunk.
As he rolled to a stop, I slipped the rubber of his cock and held it up like a trophy for our just completed landings. "Well," I said, "now that we've got two good landings in the bag, I think we should schedule more practice with the approach.
"This time, we'll practice landings in wet conditions," he said, turning the condom over so that our cum supply poured out on our exhausted bodies. We hugged, our bellies sliding around on each other with the musky lubricant we had been able to produce in class.
We laughed uproariously, dispelling the bleakness of the Minot ramp to oblivion.
