The Nuclear Option

It was midnight over the Arctic Ocean, and the moon, my oldest and best friend, shone down from a cloudless sky, casting her soft light over miles upon miles of shattered ice. A wide white frozen ocean, still as death.

“The whole back cabin is empty,” the stewardess leered down at me, “if you want to stretch out your legs.”

She could have been my age, or older, or younger. It was hard to tell under the flame-retardant polyester uniform, the caked-on makeup, the frazzled, hairsprayed hair. She might even have been attractive, I honestly couldn’t tell. Plastic-looking freckled cleavage peeked out at me from under her blouse; the top two buttons were undone and I could see the black lace of her bra.

Why does everyone always assume I’m a lesbian? I’m not, though I was momentarily tempted to take her up on her offer. I hadn’t been properly laid since I split up with Travis, my New York City boyfriend. He couldn’t deal with all the travel; he couldn’t deal with the academic knife-fighting; he couldn’t deal with having an open relationship; but he could deal with fucking nineteen-year old undergrads behind my back.

I wondered if she shaved her kitty. She probably did. Everyone does these days, everyone but me.

It was a charter flight and there were only us three passengers, and we were all up in first class where the comfortable seats are. Bud was sprawled across three seats, reading a book and chewing gum irritably. Tiger was dicking around on his computer. If I slipped back into coach with—I read her nametag: Christie—the boys would never let me hear the end of it.

I smiled and shook my head ‘no’, and asked for another bottle of water. Christie brought me a small Evian and gave me a smile and a look that said ‘Offer’s still open. Are you sure?’ I was sure. I closed my eyes for a while and pretended to sleep, and nearly succeeded in fooling myself.

We touched down in Narita just as the sun was rising, and I wanted to curl up and dry-heave, but I pulled my carry-on out of the overhead compartment and got off the plane instead. Christie squeezed my hand and gave me a pouty look on the way out. Her loss.

Our plane was waiting for us across the terminal. Another charter. We got on and sat for an hour while they located the pilot, and then deplaned and sat around the airport for another six hours while they replaced a bum hydraulic line.

Bud got drunk. Tiger alternately napped and dicked around on his computer. I went exploring.

In an out-of-the-way corner, past a forlorn Pizza Hut and a kilometer of empty gates, I watched a young Japanese couple fuck.

They were young, early twenties maybe, and good-looking in a non-descript sort of way. Their clothes were neatly folded up on the floor next to a courtesy phone. They didn’t look like the type to screw in public at the airport; they looked like a pair of eager go-getters working their way up the corporate ladder. Mitsubishi, Sony, Honda. Middle-managers or junior project leaders.

He had tan lines, which I suspect is rare in Japanese businessmen; a sunken chest with a few stray hairs around his nipples; and a really big dick, which may or may not be a good thing in bed, but certainly makes for entertaining watching. She was a petite little thing with small, conical, bouncy breasts. She didn’t shave her pussy either. There was a thick, dark triangle of hair between her legs.

He was flat on his back, behind an empty Nakanihon service desk. She was straddling him, bouncing up and down on his oversized penis. He wasn’t wearing a condom, and his dick was slick and shiny with her juices. She would lift herself up so just the head was nestled between her plump lips, and then slowly drop down until the whole appendage was buried inside her cunt. I was kind of shocked that the whole thing fit inside. Guys get to brag about having a big dick, but girls don’t get to brag about having a deep pussy. Personally, I like them medium or smaller, and I like girth. But, damn, it was hot to watch. She enjoyed every inch of it. Her tits shook as they fucked, and I felt my own underutilized pussy getting wet inside my pants.

She noticed me watching and tittered behind her hand in that inimitable Japanese way, and whispered something to her partner. They switched positions, so they were both facing me: her down on her hands and knees, and him fucking her from behind. Her little tits dangled down and jiggled with every thrust. I could hear his cock squelching in and out, I could hear them both grunting and gasping. I stuck a hand down my pants. I was soaked.

He pulled out and she spun around, and he jerked off into her open mouth. He came silently, his face screwed up in a Noh mask of passion. He pumped pearly-white semen onto her outstretched tongue, and she clearly relished it, gobbling it all up and cleaning his penis after, lavishing her tongue up and down and all around as he slowly wilted. God, I missed that! Not that particular act so much, but the intimacy of it. Double-As will only get you so far. I missed sex. I missed dick.

Grinning stupidly, his huge cock now very much reduced, he slumped against the wall. The airport P.A. system rattled off a warning about leaving luggage unattended in seven different languages. My hand was still busy inside my pants. She smiled shyly at me, spreading her legs to show me just how wet her pussy was. I could actually see her clitoris, which I thought was pretty hot. She nodded eagerly and beckoned. Why does everyone think I’m a lesbian?

I turned around and fled, losing myself in the labyrinth that is Narita. Stepped into a ladies’ and changed my panties. Maybe I should have licked her pussy. Maybe I’d like it. I’ve been told that before. Maybe I’ll try someday. At the moment all I wanted was to get some dick and finish my dissertation. I’d been called out for fudging some numbers, just a little, just enough to make the dataset fit the predictions, and my advisor had totally lost his shit and my funding got pulled and now it was back to square one. Or maybe square zero.

They got a new plane for us, and we crawled onboard like refugees and took off. Mercifully, I slept a little on this leg: weird, surreal, semi-erotic half dreams of fucking in airplane bathrooms and airport corridors. Riemann sums and zeta functions and beta particles and oversized cocks.

The landing in Damascus was one of the scariest things I’ve ever experienced. We came in steep and we came in fast, and when the gear hit the tarmac, I thought the plane had broken in half. We taxied to the gate, and they hustled us off the plane and onto another charter, an aging A300, and it was one more flight to Tehran, through Iraqi airspace up above a thick layer of cloud that could have been anywhere in the world, and then it was a quick puddle-jumper turboprop to Ardakan, and then a bouncy ride in a white SUV with black tinted windows to the hotel. My insides felt like microwaved scrambled eggs.

When we got off the plane in Tehran, they had given me a veil, and now, stepping out of the SUV into the brief intense Persian sun, I put it on. I felt faintly ridiculous, like I was getting dressed up to go trick-or-treating, and I had to suppress a wicked case of the giggles.

As we schlepped into the air-conditioned hotel lobby, the azan was called, piped in through loudspeakers, calling the faithful to prayer. We stood around in the plush lobby, feeling like fools, weary and jetlagged fools, the only people in the room not kneeling down and facing Mecca.

Prayer finished, and we were shown to our rooms, and then we were brought down to a conference room where Farhad, our contact, apologetically told us that he was waiting for the paperwork to come back authorizing us to do our work, and that there would be a slight delay. That was fine by us: we had been ready to go to work on the spot, but they were paying by the day, and if they weren’t ready for us, that was their problem. He advised us to go up to our rooms and get some rest; the matter would certainly be cleared up by the morning. That sounded OK by me. Farhad glanced at me, and his look contained a question and a suggestion that would probably have made his Supreme Leader blush and might well have earned him a public whipping.

I didn’t seriously consider inviting Farhad back up to my hotel room; I may have been horny and hungry for dick, but I did have standards and Farhad wasn’t my type. He was slick, greasy, and effeminate, and he had a big black bushy beard. I returned his gaze with a look of uncomprehending indifference. Anyway, I needed my beauty sleep.

Up in my hotel room, I stripped off all my clothes—I always sleep naked, when I’m not actively bleeding—and luxuriated in the fresh, clean high-thread count sheets. I briefly considered masturbating, but before I could even get down to business, exhaustion won out over jet lag, and I fell asleep. At least for a while.

I was woken up by a tapping at the door, soft but insistent. Outside, it was still bright and sunny, a fact that punched me in the gut. I assumed that the paperwork had come through, and Farhad was summoning us to the facility. I sleepily pushed the button next to the bed that unlocked the door.

It was, in fact, Bud. Hunky, beefy, gruff and taciturn Bud, with his Fu Manchu mustache and soul patch that our hosts seemed to find quietly hilarious.

I didn’t know Bud all that well: we were acquaintances academically, and had worked together a couple times now, but we’d never hung out or talked much. I knew he’d been drummed out of MIT for, of all things, boinking an underage undergrad.

I realized, belatedly, that I was stark naked. I realized, as well, that Bud was just fine with that fact.

We retreated to an entrenched position on my bed, where we proceeded to set about kissing and making out, for what seemed like a very long time.

I really liked being held in Bud’s arms; he was strong and solid. I really liked the way he kissed and touched me. I liked his hands. I liked the attention he was paying to my breasts. The only thing I didn’t like was that I was undressed and he wasn’t. So I took it upon myself to remedy that situation.

He had a firm, round belly, a deep navel, and a short, fat dick. The crown was juicy red. It felt really nice with my hand wrapped around it, and Bud’s kissing took on a new level of urgency. His large, hairy hand slipped between my legs and found my scalding hot slick wet pussy.

There was a knock at the door, a sharp rat-a-tat. Definitely Farhad this time. Well, he would just have to wait until I had an orgasm. My hand was moving insistently up and down Bud’s stout, stumpy erection. One of his fingers had just slipped inside me, and it felt delightful. My clit was bulging up and out, eager to join the fun.

I certainly didn’t buzz him in, so Bud must have. It wasn’t Farhad after all, it was Tiger, and he moved purposefully into the room, as silent and focused as a hunting cat, letting the door clunk shut behind him.

I didn’t know Tiger well at all. We’d worked on one project together before, that was it. He was young, crazy young for a post-doc student, in his very early twenties at most. He was short and angular, with spiky hair and intense brown eyes behind square glasses. I don’t know what he’d done to get booted out of Stanford, but it must have been pretty awful, because he was genuinely fucking brilliant.

He stalked silently across the room, almost gliding. He shed his clothes by the side of the bed. He had a nice, taut body; chunky muscles like he worked out in a gym; a fluff of dark hair on his chest and under his arms; a shaved set of cock and balls. His dick popped out of his tight white briefs, nice and hard already; not too long, with an aggressive upward curve, a drawn bow. I wondered what that serpentine cock would feel like up inside my pussy. Pretty damn good, I bet, especially with Bud’s stubby one lodged in my butt.

He crawled into bed with us. My hand found his dick, and I squeezed. He was hot and hard and smooth. Bud’s finger was moving incessantly in my cunt. I was in heaven: a nice thick dick in each hand! I rolled over onto my back, spreading my legs wide. Tiger’s hand joined Bud’s, and now I had two fingers, belonging to two different guys, up my twat. I wanted some of that dick inside me, and I wanted it, like yesterday.

Bud broke off our kiss, and Tiger leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth. The two boys necked while I continued to jerk them both off. Then they squirmed away, sliding their wet fingers out of my gasping, engorged, juicy wet cunt.

The boys maneuvered into a 69 position next to me on the bed: Bud on the bottom, Tiger perched on top, feeding each other cock. I had an excellent view of fat balls, hard wet dicks, slurping tongues, tight buns and assholes. The only thing missing from the picture was me. I stroked Tiger’s compact little ass while my finger slowly circled my own swollen clit. I watched as Bud licked Tiger’s crinkly, hairless ball sac and tongued his tiny little asshole.

They rolled over, dicks wet and hard and urgent, and Bud scrambled around, manhandling Tiger into position. One hairy paw on the boy’s throat, the other one guiding his own cock. There was no condom. I wondered if they’d done this before; the routine seemed practiced and familiar to them both.

Bud speared Tiger with his short, fat dick. Tiger grunted out something unintelligible as Bud penetrated him. It might have been “more”. Bud started fucking his ass, nothing slow, nothing subtle, slamming his asshole hard and viciously. He had one hair in Tiger’s black hair, the other was wrapped around his curvaceous dick, busily jacking him off. I lounged against the head of the bed, watching the show, diddling myself slowly. I didn’t want to come until they did.

It didn’t take long. Bud was huffing and puffing like a prizefighter, fucking Tiger hard, handling his lithe young body like a rag doll. He growled and skewered Tiger one last time, crammed his thick short dick all the way up the kid’s anus, and held him close while he came deep inside his asshole. Then he yanked his dick out, spun Tiger around, and wrapped his lips around the livid red crown of his cock, frantically jerking off Tiger’s C-shaped shaft. Tiger threw his head back and roared, shooting off into Bud’s mouth. Bud sucked it all up, I didn’t see one drop of semen escape his lips.

Very conscious of the guys watching me, I started to masturbate in earnest. It didn’t take me long either, I was way too worked up. I wished I had a dildo, or maybe two dildos, or at least a vibrator, but of course I had packed nothing of the sort. I slid a finger up my own asshole, jammed a finger up my pussy, and used the palm of my hand to grind against my swollen clit. I came, and I came hard, writhing on the bed, riding the wave that rolled through my body, tossing and tumbling over me, overwhelming me with pleasure.

We fell asleep like that, though it was only late afternoon and the sun was still shining; a sticky, sweaty, intertwined mass on my bed. When I woke up, it was dark and they were gone. There was no sign that they had been there at all. The whole episode might have been a dream, a hallucination brought on by jetlag and pent-up lust. I lay in bed the whole night and tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. I whacked off again, and while it felt good, it didn’t help. I lay there under the soft hum of the air conditioner, staring at the ceiling and pondering sketchy numbers and fudged datasets and enriched uranium until long after dawn.

As predicted, the paperwork came through bright and early. Farhad packed us all off to the facility, past big, stony-faced men in robes with beards and Kalashnikovs. We made the necessary adjustments to the centrifuges. It didn’t take long; their own grad students should have been able to do the work, but we weren’t about to say anything. This would make a nice fat dent in my student loan debt; the fee would come from a Swiss consulting firm that nominally provided services to the Brazilian aerospace industry.

We were whisked back to the airport and aloft, back home via Indonesia and then Amsterdam; a big fat credit lodged safely in our bank accounts. Back to New York City;  my messy studio apartment, my laundry basket overflowing, my sails in rags, my dissertation shattered, my drawer full of sex toys, my ex-boyfriend who might or might not be up for having casual sex with me.

Deep down in my abdomen, I felt the first twinging cramps of my impending period. I gazed out the small oval window of the airplane and saw the moon, my oldest and only friend, flying high above the languid waters of the Arabian Sea.

END

7 Comments »

  1. Tom said

    Very sexy, but also kind of scary. Also, do you have that stewardess’s phone number?

  2. Weird said

    More than kind of scary, it us terrifying because it describes one of the many ways in which wet work and dirty work gets done. Imagine the pay scale for slipping into Iran to fix an issue in their enrichment program. Better yet, try to figure out the odds of you leaving the underground facility after you fix their problem.

  3. advizor54 said

    I’m sending this link to a friend because she wants me to play out this exact scenario except at the end I get get her too. Thanks for capturing her powerful fantasy.

    • elsiewrites said

      Your friend has a fantasy about enriching uranium?? Awesome!

      • advizor54 said

        Exactly

        I must playy along On Jun 13, 2013 3:06 AM, “So Wrong (the collected pornographica of Elsie)” wrote:

        > ** > elsiewrites commented: “Your friend has a fantasy about enriching > uranium?? Awesome!”

  4. cliffmichaels said

    Please, Ms., may we have another?

    • elsiewrites said

      Working on it…
      L

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