Second Cup Of Coffee

An hour after takeoff I began to regret that second cup of coffee I had at the airport restaurant, and the en-route turbulence that was correctly forecast for this segment of our trip made me decidedly uncomfortable. I knew I could not last the three or so hours remaining before we were to land. Although I had the standard small male urinal no charter jock would take off without, circumstances often limited its use except in extreme situations. What made me opt in favor of it use in this situation was the hot young guy in the right seat, to whom I was physically attracted the moment he arrived at the airport an hour earlier. Early 20's, I'd guess, light brown hair, swimmers build, and poured into a pair of 501's so perfectly that his bulge drew my attention as often as the panel instruments.

I looked over and said: "We've got a small problem," and went on to describe my discomfort and consequent need to use the bottle. I explained that the autopilot was down for repairs, and that I would need his help in holding the plane straight and level while I attended to nature. His insecurity and the continuing turbulence, however, quickly demonstrated his inability to do this.

Unable to take my hands off the controls, we flew along in silence for a while. Finally I said that I thought we might have to land to avoid an embarrassing accident. His response to this suggestion was rapid, almost rehearsed.

"Tell you what," he said, "I think I can play a supporting roll." He went on to say that while I handled the airplane, he could facilitate the urination process. "I guess so," was my rather stupid reaction to his offer, whereupon he reached for the bottle and my fly in a pair of deliberate moves that made we wonder how often he practiced them.

He first pulled the seat belt upward a bit to have access to the buttons of my fly, then proceeded to open them all. My thoughts began to run wild as his searching fingers entered my jeans to locate my penis. He was undoubtedly fumbling for the fly in my white Calvins, and finding none said: "I guess you're an 'over-the-top' guy, eh?" Whereupon he moved from cupping my balls to fingering the top of the waist band, pulling it down so that my penis could access the urinal opening. What with the pressure from my bladder and my mind out of control at the thoughts of this hot, young guy doing this to me, my erection was complete and obvious.

"We have a little problem here," he said. "Unless you can get that thing down a notch or two, you'll be peeing uphill into this thing -- and that doesn't bode well for your clothes or the seat of this airplane." I had no intelligent response, and as best I could I tilted forward just enough to achieve a level entry. Success soon followed, and I let go a sigh of relief. But rather than corking the urinal and returning it to the floor behind us, he said: "I think I'm gonna have to use this too, if you don't mind." "No, go ahead," I said, almost forgetting for the moment that my rock hard cock was sticking up out of my fly.

He quickly proceeded to open his fly, and insert his semi-hard uncut penis into the urinal, making the familiar grunts of relief as he did so. Finishing, he pulled out, corked the bottle, and placed in behind us."

Leaving his own penis sticking out, he said: "Here, let me help you get back inside;" and then he proceeded to pull my briefs up over my rigid penis, with regrettable success. His bungled attempts to button my fly brought his fingers into repeated contact with my cock. The jerking of the airplane and the fumbling of his fingers were so stimulating that both my cock and the airplane were having similar difficulties resuming a straight and level attitude. He was persistent, however, and gave me the distinct impression that he did not find the repeated efforts in any way disagreeable; and I was able to communicate the same thought to him.

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"Maybe this will take you mind off the turbulence," he said, and he slipped his hand down the front of my briefs and cupped my balls, squeezing his fingers around my scrotum, the heal of his hand rubbing up and down against the underside of my shaft. I groaned in agreement. Then with his other hand, he took his own now erect penis, and began to stroke it deliberately, the glans now a shiny purple dome sitting majestically atop his rigid manpole.

For an impossibly long time, he kept up both his movements and our respective male instruments, during which time the turbulence outside the airplane gave way to the turbulence entirely within it. With the airplane now making fewer demands upon my attentions and my hands, I slipped my right hand over to spell him on his work in the right seat. The change of stroke brought him quickly to orgasm, and his ejaculation spurtted a foot or more over his lap and back on my hand and arm.

After what seemed like only a few seconds of recovery, he said: "Here, let's not have your cum get all over the instruments," and he picked up the pace to the point where I could hold off no longer. He cupped my cock so that I shot my entire wad into his hands rather than in the air and onto my clothes. As my throbbing subsided, he withdrew his hands, now filled with my semen, and said: "Guess there no room left in the bottle for this," and he proceeded to bring his still cupped hands to his mouth to be licked clean. He proceeded to swallow virtually all of my semen that he caught in his hand, leaving his hands completely clean. "Nice," he grinned.

At this, I brought my right hand to my mouth, to lap up his semen that landed on my arm and hand. "Nice," I added.

For some reason, neither of us buttoned our flys till after we landed.

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