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.
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.
