Flying High Read Online Free

I’d gone to the ends of the earth in a clichéd but literal sense. To keep that perfection, I’d suffered infidelity, and forced Friederike to divorce me. My German love’s passion was restrained, soft, ladylike, rationed. It was what I wanted.
    It was!
    The burrowing depth of Max’s eyes insisted. I tried to resist, but just as my hand had explored her face on its own, my body seemed to switch to autopilot. I rose urgently and stood behind my seat. Max nodded, then followed suit. We collided, and her hand went straight down the front of my pants and gripped my rod.
    I slid into her pants and split the front of her blouse, then descended into her soaked cotton panties. Our free arms, my left and her right, encircled each other like mating snakes and we shoved into each other like sumo wrestlers jockeying for control, neither yielding. We were both as silent as the reverent in an Orthodox church, the wet sound of our kisses lost in the din of the aircraft.
    â€œWe shouldn’t do this, should we?” she whispered between kisses.
    â€œI can’t stop,” I whispered back and kissed her ear.
    â€œThank god.” She opened her pants and shoved them down, releasing the delicious scent of her pussy. Immediately, my pants and boxers were on the floor and we both stepped free. She turned toward the pilot’s seat.
    I told myself over and over that I could control this, that I could back away from her spreading thighs as she hugged the back of the seat to brace herself. The Atlantic Ocean glimmered and danced, peeking through strips of clouds below the steady nose of the 767 as my hips eased in behind her. I bent my knees
to perfect my entry like the eastern approach into Lindbergh Field, just atop the rooftops in San Diego. I pushed under the tail of her shirt, Instrument Flight Rules, without the aid of guiding hands or visual confirmation. I dipped inside her perfectly. She choked on a gasp, and we moved with the rhythm of a seasoned flight team.
    I gripped her shoulders like a harness. We kissed over her shoulder. Her tongue split my teeth and timed with my thrusts in her.
    Ice-cold water, threat or act of dismissal, Friederike begging me to stop with the words “ Ich liebe dich” spoken tenderly could not have parted Max and me. Desperate though I was, both in need and in fear of discovery, I lingered and fought back my swelling orgasm, knowing I might never see Max again once we had touched down and gone our separate ways.
    The sun kissed the sea before us. Time seemed suspended as I released with powerful final thrusts into Max, and our silence was broken with orgasmic shouts that were both nasal and guttural.
    I wondered, if the 767 had suddenly gone down, and they fished out the black box, how they would have interpreted what they heard.
    I held tight to Max’s back as we draped over the back of the seat and gasped for breath, but only for a moment. We recovered quickly, dressed and got back into our seats. Max produced a handkerchief and wiped her glossy brow. Our only conversations after that were in familiar flight terms.
    We concluded our journey, she taking me in her peripheral vision, me fighting against fresh erections.
    The approach was perfect, the landing butter smooth.

    You can’t get much farther from the big, wet Atlantic Ocean than the contrastingly named Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix. I listened to the fading echoes of forward thrust to lift off. The muffled screech of tires—first contact and then second—then reverse thrust of landing. The sun descended all too fast over the desert sky; it turned the turquoise of a tropical lagoon into a sharpening strip of orange, then was gone.
    The singular credentials, my enrollment in the Mile High Club, was something I’d never experience again. It was a wild ride, and an even wilder risk. But through it, I’d learned that there were risks worth taking in this life.
    I had let go of Friederike some