Head In The Clouds 1

I psyched myself out for this six-hour plane ride to Madrid. I lucked out and nabbed a window seat thanks to a would-be passenger who probably was jacking off in the airport loo in lieu of boarding this flight. "Yo no soy Señor Valencia Garcia Fernandez. Yo soy una mujer," I said to a haughty flight attendant before she walked away, puzzled, three hours ago just before takeoff. I wanted to add, "Idiota," but I didn't. To my surprise, there was no one seated to my left, either. I should be one to talk about the poor soul with the now-glistening boner; I almost missed the plane myself. I'd been searching for my favorite pantyhose, to no avail. I found some silk stockings instead. My heavy thighs made the effort far from hasty, but the friction from twisting and turning left the crotch of my lace panties pasty.

Now here I am, four more hours to go, and my thighs are exposed to the frigid air on the plane. I buzz a flight attendant for assistance. It takes her some time to sashay over, and then I request a blanket. A navy-blue number that depresses me suddenly, but not enduringly as will the rain promised to be awaiting us in Madrid. The air hostess says only first-class passengers get blankets. When I raise my skimpy skirt to reveal a zebra-print thong hugging my voluptuous hips, she licks her lips and disappears through the curtain.

Within minutes, I have not one, but two blankets and a sleazy stare from the air slut. I'm annoyed by her presence but my clit betrays me and pops up, pressing against the zebra thong's soft, and now, wet cotton. I can't wait for mealtime, so my hands venture beneath the blanket to find a sweet snack. My ebony fingers dab around in my wetness for what feels like hours but it's just minutes. My clit is so swollen that it feels as if it's going to jump through my navel. Imagining its deep violet flush sends the blood rising to my face, creating the impression that I delicately have applied rouge.

I need to take the edge off a bit, so I caress my mound upward, left and right, indirectly contacting my clit soft moans escape my throat. Inevitably my digits find their way to the throbbing bud before it returns to its protective sheath. As after a delicious meal, I lick my fingers clean. The flight attendant watches with parted lips as I clean off both hands in slo-mo. Just for fun, I ask her for a napkin and deliberately brush the back of her hand. To see her knees go wobbly and her figure dash in the direction of the kitchen is worth the seduction, judging by how much wetter my thong has become. I peek under the blanket and sniff in the musk of my cunt. With my hands dawdling between my thighs again, I drift to sleep. But not for long.

I couldn't have known that a tall man seated one row behind me was spying on me while my eyes were either glazed over or closed. He ambles over to my seat and clears his throat. Leaning down while grasping the seatback, he whispers that he was stroking his stiff dick beneath his own double set of blankets. I'm concerned that he's aware I'm tapping my foot, but when I turn to meet his eyes, I see they're glued on my pouty lips. While I was in my own erotic heaven, he says, he watched me suck pearls of cum from beneath my airbrushed, acrylic fingernails. An image invades my consciousness of him shooting his baby batter on the seat ahead of him. The violence of that thought stirs the wetness in my nether junction, and I find myself shifting slightly under the blankets upon the man's hesitant touch upon my thigh.

"Is that a groan?" I inwardly inquire. I dismiss the primal sound as an orgasmic hallucination. The stranger squeezes my thigh firmly now. He caresses the other thigh, slimier than the other. My eyes squint open but capture only his dark curly hair above a pink forehead. He's nearly drooling on my top blanket, not able to see what his hands are conquering. I feel my inner thighs part further, and my tummy sinks in because his strokes tickle and arouse me. His hands play and caress, gliding back south to my thighs and then tentatively upward to my thonged pelvis -- my sheltered funny bone. I want to laugh but dare not.

His hands travel up my back, and when they meander under my lacy bra, he glances up into my wide-open eyes. Like a magician, he undoes all three hooks and I respond with, "Bravo." After he claps his hands in the air twice, a red rose rises from the deep valley of my cleavage. I applaud his lewd one-man circus, happy to be his cheap side show. My engorged lips are the price of admission, and he gently lifts himself to press his puckered set against mine. Perhaps the air on the plane has worn thin because I'm gasping for air upon his cupping of my Lady D's with gusto. I moan into the nicotine stench of his opening mouth, and with one swift move, he snatches off the fleece blankets. I suck his steamy tongue as if it were a huge prick pinning me to my seat. Suddenly I'm at a carnival, flashing my knockers to a hawker while I aim my cocked arcade gun at a clown's gaping mouth. "Like an absurd blow job from a distance, hehe," the carny tells me. But before I can claim my stuffed purple monkey, I flash back into my body here on the plane.

Lip-locked with a stranger who has large hands, I feel oddly refined in his crude embrace. I wish not to be rude, however. After all, I can't object, anyway. His tongue takes an acrobatic dive toward my tonsils, rendering me mute. Like a mime, I gesture wildly with my small hands, which his palms dwarf and guide to his hammerlike, ruddy dick. His is a large, fantastic hammer similar to the one I spied at the two-minute carnival visit. Only this one's made of flesh that his fast-coursing blood has hardened as bone. This strange man with a clown's hands and, now, a circus tent for trousers dawdles between my jugs, while his hammer seems to slip out of my hands. "Could he have come so soon?" I wonder. As if he can read my mind, he tells me, "Don't worry. It's my pre-cum," then tells me to taste it.

He shows me why he likes kissing me, raising an eyebrow as gingerly as a trapeze artist's limb, and then swoops down to nibble my lower lip. He licks a bit of his own pre-cum from my lips and then sucks my upper lip and kisses the tip of my nose. In this moment I notice his bulbous nose, not unlike Karl Malden's, though not as phallic as Jimmy Durante's. I'm not short on talent, so I perform the amazing feat of singlehandedly coaxing a foot of cock through his tent flap. A free hand soon becomes prisoner of his balls, failing to juggle them in the ballooned space of his pants. The sexual tension around us in the adjacent window seats climbs until our libidos walk a tight wire higher than this jumbo jet's altitude.

The clown-stranger's cock points toward some unknown erotic galaxy as if to beg the gods there to suck it. Taking on a new, divine persona, I elongate my mouth to mirror my nether channel and feast alone on my ripe ambrosia. Sucking and licking such firm fruit, I am as giddy as the woman-girl back in carnival time, savoring a red candied apple, none to eager to get to the seeds at the core. "I command you to suck it," the man wants to shout. Lest he jolt the slumbering passengers nearest us, he whittles his order to a whisper, his throat left trembling and mine soon filled with post-Fall earthiness with yet a comet's heat.

The double-jointed, passionate stranger thumbs my nipples on tits that swing like pendulums, and he reaches around to maneuver his fingers into my soaked zebra thong. Leaving his tent pole slick with its saliva, my now-cavernous mouth trails echoes of lusty cries formed where his cockhead defied gravity past my tonsils. As I descend on his resilient dick, I bury my yelping into a blanket he has thrown over his shoulder. Between the plane's sharp dips and the stranger's enormous swells inside my channel, I'm experiencing a wicked case of turbulence. Nowhere near satiated, though aching from his cock's reverberations in my pussy, I huskily protest and ease myself off his skyward gear.

The aroma of my cunt released into the stilted air is driving him wild like a kamikaze pilot. He wants to dive. "Eat me, " I command him. "Eat me and I'll let you fuck my fleshy pussy until we reach Spain," I taunt him. He grunts his approval. Cocking his head, he kisses my neck in disparate sets of foreign phrases. He savors Breton sea salt on his tongue, as if it whipped up from the Atlantic Ocean far beneath us. He licks his parted lips and threatens me with his lust: "Woman, I don't know who you are, but I'm starved, and I want you to satisfy me."

On my neck I feel teeth like limestone from Liguria marking his territory, the bruising there sure to turn the shade of blue sea that leads to a grotto before deepening to a shade of purple found in Sardinian sunsets. He travels to my southernmost erogenous zone and possesses it, too. My cries, which evoke Morocco's Great Crested Grebes, drown out the sounds of his indulgent sucking of my vulva's nectar. He dallies there, his rhythmic lapping triggering my dam to break, layered folds flapping until my clitoris aches for sweet relief. But he refuses to abandon me; he desires my complete surrender. He alternates his wet pleasuring with blowing light breezes on tenderized flesh, and I bend his ear by delivering feminine oceanic vibrations from the grooves of my conch.

I cry out, selfishly gloating in my lust and secretly wishing my rut would seep into the pores of every passenger and crew member. "Yes, come. Allow me to taste you, my siren," he says. But if he only knew -- I'm still out to sea, clinging to the Rock of Gibraltar while the Barbary apes pound their breasts in frenzied approval of our erotic scene. My own primal screams are deafening, though I think I'm hearing the man mock me. Yes, he's smiling and now roaring like the apes. Amid a fit of lagnolalia spoken in four distinct tongues, he cups my asscheeks and probes my winking eye. I wince from the pleasurable violence of twisted finger fucking and thrust my cunt in his face. He spits on my clit, then nibbles gently around the stem till the gob drips from my flared labia to my spasming cunthole, where it waits for his tongue to mix it with apricot liqueur.

My clown pirate, wannabe daredevil pilot, returns to pleasuring my neck but pauses the enchantment to ask my name. I refuse to disclose, so he dirties my ear to excess and squeezes my rear until I nearly cave in. I squeal as he hunkers down to suck my nipples until they harden like thimbles. My breathing quickens upon each caress of my breasts, their dark complexion as tempting as the skin of eggplant. Returning to my vulvacano, he finds me burning. And yearning. I long to come in his large, firm hands. He keeps me at the brink of ecstasy by switching from licking my clit to penetrating my navel with his meaty tongue.

With his fleshy lips, he traces the dark line from my innie to my mons veneris, taking time to comb my pubic hairs with his limestone teeth. I pull back, pressing my backside into his hands, feel him pinching my flexing cheeks, all the while swirling his hot tongue around my clit. When my behind starts to circle in his hands, he moves his mouth to my cunthole and buries his tongue in it as if securing treasure fathoms deep. With his finger rubbing my clit while he devours me, I can't stop the primordial ooze from steaming out of my pussy.

When the stranger switches his rhythm to the sensual sounds of flamenco's castanets, I float out of my head and over Seville. Slowly now, he moves his tongue from my cunt to my ass -- that's how wide he has my legs spread on the now-soaked plane seat. Like a bolt of lightning, my back, legs and pelvis go into a spasm and I arrive, again and again, as if I'm a plane reapproaching the runway. Ever the sadistic charmer, he fingers my pussy while I spasm again, but this time jerking his cock. "You want this cock, lady?!" he says, not sure whether to ask or shout at me.

Determined to taste his spunk, I squat down in front of our seats just in time for him to ejaculate on the blankets strewn on the floor. I lock my lips on his tight balls and slobber them while he shoots. My fat titties swing, slapping against his calves while I suck and lick those twins like the whore I become in my earthbound dreams. My clown man tastes of the sea, but also of the meadows sprawled over Ireland. Lathering his shaft for a slippery finish, I greedily suck his purplish head into my lips. In minutes his dick pops out my mouth and spews jizz on my rack. He rests his head between my thighs while I swirl his man glue around my bulging nipples.

"Excuse me, miss," I hear a voice say. Standing before me is an airport employee wearing a stern countenance framed by a dark bob and a navy blue turtleneck sweater. I manage to open only one eye, but a glance at my watch shows I've been asleep for several hours. "So much for listening to well-meaning friends telling me to arrive four hours early," I muse.

The employee pipes up, "Your flight to Madrid is boarding now, miss. Please follow me."

I'm stunned but instinctively rise to my feet. Accustomed to traveling light, I nearly leave behind my 24-inch upright. Before the employee can rescue my luggage, a tall man with dark, curly hair who has just exited the men's restroom walks over to my upright and rolls it in my direction.

"Ahem," says the efficient airport employee, breaking our spell. Then she turns to admonish the man with large pink hands, saying, "Now, Señor Valencia Garcia Fernandez, you wouldn't want to miss your flight home. What would your circus troupe do without you?"