I used to hate flying. No, that’s not true. I had no problem with the actual flying. It was the process I hated: the airlines, the airports, the god-damned TSA.
The flight looked to be pretty full. I settled into my window seat and watched my fellow-passengers trudge up the aisle like so many portly zombies, dreading spending the next seven hours dueling elbows with some obese, halitosis-ridden, armrest-hogging businessman.
A guy sat down in the aisle seat. Scruffy dude, about my age, skinnier and shorter than me, with a pointy nose and chin and unruly copper hair. He looked like a hiker, a mountain biker, a musician. I suddenly had the strong feeling I should recognize him, that I had seen him on TV or Youtube or something. He nodded to me as he settled in, and I returned his nod with a friendly-ish half smile, and went back to my book.
And then we were pushing back from the gate. The middle seat between us was vacant, almost the only empty seat on the plane. Guy and me exchanged another look: Score! In the land of small blessings, we had just hit jackpot. He wasn’t bad looking, not at all; pretty cute actually. I was nearly certain I recognized him. Some band du jour? A face from the news? I’m lousy at spotting famous people.
We leveled out, high above an unbroken layer of clouds, and the stewardesses started driving their carts down the center aisle: crappy meals for sale, soft drinks and booze and water for sale, no cash, all credit cards accepted.
“I can’t believe they make you pay for water now,” he said to me. He had a nice voice, a baritone, deeper than I had expected, with just a hint of a southern accent. “What’s next, bathroom fees?”
This was almost too good to be true. I checked his hand: no ring. He was really cute, in a hillbilly/hipster sort of way. The thought of an extended flirtation, followed by a surreptitious make-out session tickled my clit, and made me feel pleasantly warm between my legs. I pictured snuggling up next to him, the cabin lights dim, laying my head on his lap, carefully unzipping his zipper… Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad flight after all.
Just as I was trying to come up with a response that was both witty and vivacious, the plane lurched violently. Drinks were spilled up and down the cabin. Somebody screamed. We exchanged a look. My hand more or less inadvertently landed on his jeans-clad thigh and squeezed: it was partly an automatic startle response, partly me seizing an opportunity.
The intercom crackled to life. Garbled, staticky noises came over the speakers. Grunts, thunks, somebody yelling in what sounded like a foreign language. And then, “Shit! Put that down! Put it down! Mayday! Mayday!”
There was a single gunshot, an unmistakable, final bang that echoed through the airframe, and the loudspeaker went dead. A moment of silence, as everyone in the plane collectively sucked in a breath. My hand stayed on his thigh, strong and tense.
The engines revved up to an agonizing howl as someone’s hand pulled the throttle all the way to maximum. The pitch they reach when the plane is taking off is nothing; those big engines sounded like they were going to tear right off the wings. We were pushed back into the seats by the force of the acceleration. The nose of the plane angled radically down, and we pierced the clouds like a spear. There was screaming, and the crash of a drinks cart careening down the aisle. I clenched the hand on his thigh, so hard I probably left bruises. All around us, people were hysterical; we sat there wide-eyed and petrified, like a pair of Easter Island statues.
After what seemed like an impossibly long power dive, the aircraft finally pulled up, groaning and complaining. We were crushed into our seats, and the wings bowed up so far I thought they must snap. For a few moments, there was dead silence in the cabin. Then pandemonium broke out once again.
I looked out the window. We were low, way too low, skimming just above treetops and suburban homes. I knew, right then, I knew that I was going to die.
People had more or less settled down. Some were trying their cell phones. A contingent was performing CPR on a lady. Maybe she’d had a heart attack, or been injured during the sudden dive. Flight attendants were circulating up and down the cabin, shakily telling people not to panic. Up front, a burly group of passengers was using a drinks cart as a battering ram, trying to bust down the armored cockpit door. It wouldn’t work, I knew that. The designers had done their job too well; nobody was going to break into that cockpit.
He placed his hand on mine. Turned to me, raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t normally ask this,” he said. Where the hell did I recognize him from? Was he in a rock band? On some reality tv show? “But what the hell. Do you want to fuck?”
I’ve never understood the cachet of the mile-high club. Airplane bathrooms are gross and claustrophobic. I don’t even like going into one to pee, never mind to get some quick and dirty illicit action. My guess is that it’s a notch in your belt type thing, bragging rights or whatever, and that’s never really been my cup of tea.
My pussy was wet, wet in a deeply inappropriate way for this situation. My nipples were hard, threatening to poke straight through my bra. I should have been pissing my panties or praying; I just wanted him to stick a hand down the front of my pants and touch my clit. If he had so much as pinched one of my nipples, I would have come right there in my seat. The thought of fucking him, right here and now, made me even wetter. I squeezed his crotch through his jeans and found him bone-hard. We were in agreement.
We got up and made our way to the bathroom at the rear of the cabin. Getting there was tricky. The plane was shuddering through what I would have thought of as scary turbulence, if I hadn’t known that we were now riding an oversized cruise missile, and had more to worry about than choppy air. We had to dodge other people, panicked, petrified, and otherwise, all with agendas of their own. Once inside the loo, two people crammed into a space designed for barely one, it was like we had stepped into a separate reality.
We didn’t waste any time. There wasn’t any time left to waste. Tripping, tangling with each other, we pulled off our pants. His cock jutted obscenely out, trapped under the waistband of his undies. He lifted me up onto the tiny plastic sink, and I wrapped my legs around his backside. He pulled my boring blue panties aside, took his dick in one hand, and skewered my juicy cunt. We kissed, hard and violently, as we fucked.
I had a strange cock in my pussy, unprotected by so much as a condom. I tensed up, pulling involuntarily away. What, I wondered for a millisecond, the fuck was I thinking? And then I remembered that it didn’t matter, not one little bit, and I relaxed and let myself enjoy the sensation of being fucked, fucked hard and deep.
He smelled of fresh-cut cedar, and his red hair was all mussed up. His cock felt amazing in my pussy. He grabbed my ass with both hands, pulling me forcefully toward him as he thrust.
The plane lurched hard, and I fell awkwardly against the bulkhead. I heard the snap of my wrist breaking, and saw, as if from a long way away, my hand flapping at an unnatural angle at the end of my arm. “That,” I thought to myself, “Is really going to hurt later on.”
He was fucking me with a renewed energy, puffing and panting like an Olympic sprinter. He was sweating hard. One finger was buried in my asshole. I could see the look in his eyes, and I knew he was going to come soon, and that was fine by me. I was right there with him. I wanted to feel his cock twitch, I wanted him to flood my pussy with his semen, I wanted to see his face as he came inside me.
The plane lurched again, banking hard, rolling through at least ninety degrees, and we were tossed together across the tiny lavatory. His head struck the ceiling hard, flattening the back of his skull with an ugly-sounding thunk, breaking his neck just like a swimmer diving into the shallow end of a pool. His eyes, wide and staring, were glassy and fixed, and his head lolled sickeningly atop his neck.
I was now fucking a dead man. His body was like a big sandbag, neither stiff nor especially limp; but his dick remained obstinately hard. There was a lot of blood from the massive head wound, smeared all over the tiny bathroom. I was weeping, tears streaming down my face. I suppose I should have felt something, but all I had left was the overwhelming need to come. I kept on riding his hard cock, too far gone to stop, nudging myself viciously toward the edge of the precipice.
We were flying even lower now, insanely low. I could see through the tiny lavatory window. It was a wonder we weren’t taking out church steeples and telephone poles. I made fleeting, startled eye contact with a lady hanging up her laundry to dry. My broken hand was already swelling up like an eggplant. I was going to come.
The intercom crackled to life, a garbled, disembodied voice yelling into a microphone “God is great! God is great! God is the greatest!” and my orgasm hit me, and I let loose, screaming and flailing through wave after wave of toe-curling, clit-trembling, pussy-slurping pleasure.
I never even felt the impact. There was one final lurch, a horrendous screaming-rending noise that was the fuselage snapping in half and the wings sheering off; a bright light, and then nothing. Darkness and the reek of jet fuel.
END
So Wrong (the collected pornographica of Elsie) 
nihilix said
What a way to go….
advizor54 said
HOLY FUCK. that was twisted.
thank you.
erikabarcelona said
Not to sure if I like this one, still the initial coupling was hot.