Flying High (22 page)

And one day, the conversation goes like this:

“Got you a man,” says Bob, reaching over with a fork to snag a pork ball and dunk it in my sauce.

“Can get my own.”

“Not that sort of man. Got you a man on the wing tomorrow.”

Now my interest is up. Not many men wing walk. It's for the girls; the men are too chicken. Or too heavy. Can't have a two-hundred-pound man moving across the wing. Bob couldn't keep Buttercup steady if that happened.

“Name's Leon. He's a novice but he's keen. Thought we could try out some fancy-pants double act.”

There's a mild alarm that I'll have to split my cut with this Leon, but I'm intrigued. I've never wing walked with a man, only girls, and there's always an element of competition in that. Whose tits can jut the farthest, whose leg can stay extended the longest, whose hair looks the best backswept and big as we leap lithely from the plane to greet the fans.

“Where'd you find him?”

“Came to the hangar when I was putting Buttercup to bed. We had a bit of a chat.”

He must have been convincing. If I had a dollar for every person who says to me, “I did that once” or “I'd love to do what you do,” I'd be rich enough to buy Bob his Mexican island staffed by Sigourney Weaver clones in loincloths. With dicks.

Leon is there the next morning. He's lean, feline like his name, small and wiry, the same height as me. He wears some sort of tight pants and a thick clinging fleece. The pants show off his ass pretty well. I think that he's probably gay. I'm wearing an old costume, stuff that is now not good enough for shows. There's a smear of oil across the chest and there's a couple of small holes:
one a rip on the thigh where I caught it on the door catch, the other a small one in the crotch where a seam gave when I did a handstand.

“Jaye, Leon, Leon, Jaye.” Bob does the introductions and I check to see whether he's watching Leon's ass, but he's already turned away to fiddle with Buttercup's struts, so it's up to me and Leon to make conversation.

“When did you last do this?” I ask.

“Year or so ago.”

“Where?”

He shrugs. “Mexico. Britain. Australia. Thailand.”

Everywhere, it seems, but the States. Nowhere I'd have heard of him.

“Done it with another person before?”

He smiles, showing small white teeth. Both eyeteeth point in slightly; too poor for orthodontics. That's okay, so was my family. “Yeah. I don't like doing it alone.”

Bob's finished fiddling and he produces a second harness. “You'll share the central brace,” he says, “one on each side. Ain't had time to put up the other poles. We'll just take Buttercup up and see how you get along together up there.”

I hoist up to the lower wing with ease; I do it all the time. When I stand up and look down, Leon's eyes whip away from my legs. He obviously likes women, at least a little.

We attach the harnesses firmly to the central pole, checking to make sure they won't tangle as we move around. It's a wide waist belt with shoulder straps and a slender steel cable that attaches to the pole. That's it: one skinny cable between me and eternity. My long hair is tightly braided and I wear a padded helmet as we're only practicing. No need for glamour this morning. The earpiece of the radio tucks into the side.

Bob turns the prop and Buttercup splutters into life. It's a
crisp morning, and my hands are already tingling from the chill, but I don't like to wear gloves, I like to feel Buttercup beneath my palms. I see that Leon is bare-palmed, too—or maybe he doesn't have gloves. We trundle around to the runway, and Bob revs the engine. Normally, I'd brace myself against the back support as a lever against the wind as we take off—it's harder with two since we have to stand one on each side. But then we're up and the ground falls away beneath Buttercup's wings and the lift pushes my feet into the fabric.

Bob's voice comes over the radio. “I'll come around and level off at five hundred feet, and fly straight. Then you can do whatever it is you're going to do out there.”

Beneath Buttercup's wings, there are cornfields and the yellow flat plains of eastern Colorado; a dry creek; a tangle of cotton-woods, yellowing in the early fall days; the huddle of hangars and huts around the airfield. Bob points her nose to the east and we fly into the slanting sun.

I grasp the support with one hand, lean out star fashion, tacitly encouraging Leon to do the same. He follows and when I glance left, he's arched into the wind, his face ecstatic. I shift to one foot, raise the other leg, point my toe, perform a slow series of poses around the pole. Leon follows a second behind. He's good at this.

“Going about,” says Bob over the radio, and Leon nods, prepared to hold his pose through the bank and turn.

I'm the one watching him now, and there's a thrill in watching something so beautiful this close, watching some
one
, too. He's graceful; more deliberate in his movements than a woman, but no less glorious. With a thrill, I notice the hard lines of his thighs, the curve of his butt, the weight of his calves. And I notice, too, that in the wind, his suit is pulled tight across his groin, and he's erect. Not simply turgid from effort, but supporting a full-on
pointing-to-the-right erection. Pointing to me. I glance again. He's not particularly long, but the outline looks thick. He must be really wound up for the cold and the wind not to send him as limp as one of Bob's lo mein noodles.

Two more passes of the airfield, and then Leon takes the lead. He handstands, as straight and steady as a redwood, his fingers splayed on the wing. He must be confident to try this so soon, with an unknown pilot and plane. Then his legs spread wide, and he holds the pose. Great abs. Another second, and his feet are lightly planted on the wing again.

He flashes me a smile, rests his butt against the pole, jack-knifes forward until he's in a cat stretch along the wing. I'm not trying to follow his moves. I'm simply watching him, his body, and trying to ignore the feelings in my cunt. It throbs in time with Buttercup's engine. The throb that tells me to radio Bob to get the hell down out of the sky, so that I can take Leon by the hand and find a quiet corner of the hangar to see if his dick is as delicious as it looks, flattened by his tight pants.

Leon stands. “You try,” he mouths, the words whipped away by the wind.

Try what? I've been watching his body in the minutest detail, thinking of golden skin and muscles as hard as Buttercup's seat underneath that god-awful flying gear. I've been thinking of what he'll taste like, all sweat and adrenaline leaking out through his pores, and I haven't been paying attention to his moves.

He smiles. “Put your back against the support,” he instructs, this time through the radio.

“Going around again,” comes Bob's voice over the radio, and it's Leon who acknowledges him.

Leon waits until Buttercup steadies on her new course. Now we're heading west, toward the Rockies. I can see them, hazy and purple, tipped with caps of new snow.

He's behind me. His fingertips run along my body from shoulder to hip. “Good posture.” His voice is tinny in my ear through the radio. It sounds strange with him being so close. “Try the cat stretch.”

His hands remain at my waist as I jackknife. He's so close to me that I can feel the brush of his groin on my hip. He's still erect.

His hands travel slowly around the contours of my ass, one finger running over the crease of my pants. As bent over as I am, the gusset of my pants is biting into my pussy. The seam is pressing on my clit, and by clenching and releasing my ass, these tiny movements bring me higher. I must be red in the face from having my head so low, but I'm not straightening just yet. Beneath my feet, Buttercup flies on, and the rumble from her engine travels up my already heightened nerve pathways as the throbbing builds.

I can't hold the position forever, of course, so I arch out into his graceful cat stretch. His hands fall away from my ass, and the pressure eases between my legs, a temporary reprieve. I'm so horny I just want to bring myself back into reach of his hands.

I stand again, place my hip against the pole and wiggle my ass. As invitations go it's unsubtle, but we can't stay up here forever. Bob will be swinging Buttercup around any second and we'll be heading back to the airstrip. Leon rests against me and I feel the weight of his cock as he dry-humps himself, sliding over my shiny-suited ass. It's way too cold for him to unzip himself; he'd get frostbite in those delicate swollen tissues. Me, however…

His fingers work their way down the seam of my pants, and then, as I hoped, they find the hole. It's only a small one, an inch or so of torn seam, but it's right over my cunt. My hands tighten on the pole and my breathing is shallow. Buttercup trembles beneath my feet, Bob is humming to himself over the radio, the
Rockies are huge and purple and solid in my vision, and my cunt is fiery with need.

Leon slips two fingers into the hole. They brush lightly over my panties and I shudder. Then they scissor and the old thread gives way a little more, admitting three fingers. And now they brush rhythmically over the gusset. He must realize how wet I am. I grip the pole tightly with both hands and concentrate on his fingers, moving to and fro with deliberate intent.

“Heading back,” says Bob over the radio, and there's a dip of Buttercup's wings as he prepares to turn.

Leon's hand twitches; I can sense his withdrawal. He's behind me, slightly stooped to work his fingers over my cunt. But he's also got his harness on and there's no danger. So I close my legs, trapping his hand. My inner thighs are tight and muscled from the wing walking, and he can't get away. He tries again, a tug, but his hand is trapped there as Buttercup banks around and heads back to the airfield.

Bob is still humming a Sousa march, and the sun is now hot on my face. Now that we've straightened out again, there's not long until we'll be on the ground. So I relax my thighs, free his hand, and Leon wiggles his fingers in appreciation. And then he starts to stroke in earnest, getting beneath my panties to caress my lips and circle my clit with an urgent fingertip.

I'm not sure if the ground is rushing up to meet me because Buttercup is coming in to land or if it's just the thrill and the buildup. But there's a tightness in my chest with the beauty and the glory of it all, and a trembling beneath my feet as Bob throttles back Buttercup's engine. And Leon's fingers are as fiery as the sun that burns my face and my world is tilting, the sky is falling or the ground is rising, and as Buttercup floats down out of the wide white sky, I come, screaming my joy into the wind.

Not a second too soon. Buttercup bumps down on the grass
and we're racing along, and Leon whips his hand away—I see his fingers shining with my juices—and we both grip the support tightly, totally unprepared for the landing.

Bob brakes and Buttercup meanders into her turn and taxis back to the hangar. I breathe slowly and deliberately, letting the world straighten itself again. I look over at Leon—my new partner—and smile, and he grins back with all the joy of flight in his eyes. The sun is golden on my face and Buttercup is steady beneath my feet. And here I am, on the wing, there with those that I love the most.

Written under the names Cheyenne Blue, Maggie Kinsella, and Charles LeDuc,
CHEYENNE BLUE
's erotica has previously appeared in many anthologies, including previous volumes of
Mammoth Best New Erotica, Best Lesbian Romance, Best Women's Erotica,
three of the
Erotic Alphabet
series from Cleis Press,
Best Gay Romance
, and many other anthologies and websites from 2001 to the present. She has several stories upcoming in various anthologies.

 

ELIZABETH COLDWELL
is the editor of the UK edition of
Forum
magazine. Her short stories have appeared in a number of anthologies including
Sex With Strangers, Best S/M Erotica 1
and
2, Yes, Sir
and
Spanked: Red Cheeked Erotica
. She believes that occasionally you have to make your own in-flight entertainment.

 

MATT CONKLIN
is a dominant dirty old man who is even dirtier when he writes. He has penned many smutty tales on
lonely, horny airplane rides. His writing has also been published in
Hide and Seek
and
He's on Top.

 

DESIREE
is a writer, foodie, and comic-book geek. She lives in Brooklyn, New York with her cat Ramses and has always had an inclination toward the naughty. She once scored seventy-six points in Scrabble with the word
clitoris.
She blogs about sex and life at
www.baserinstincts.com
, where she dares you to find any words misspelled.

 

JEREMY EDWARDS
is a pseudonymous sort of fellow whose efforts at spinning libido into literature have been widely published online and have appeared in numerous print anthologies. His greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Readers can drop in on him unannounced (and thereby catch him in his underwear) at
http://jerotic.blogspot.com
.

 

RYAN FIELD
is a thirty-five-year-old freelance writer who lives and works in both Los Angeles, CA and New Hope, PA. His fiction has appeared in many erotic collections and anthologies. He is currently working on a novel that is based on some of his erotic experiences.

 

STAN KENT
is a chameleon-hair-colored former nightclubowning rocket scientist author of hot words and cool stories. A dedicated voyeur and world traveler, Stan has penned nine original, unique, and very naughty full-length novels including the
Shoe Leather
series and dozens of quickie reads on everything from spanking with shoes to cupcake sex to voyeuristic orgies to techno-rave group spankings on the dance floor. When not globe-trotting and jet-setting, Stan has hosted an erotic talk show
night at Hustler Hollywood. The
Los Angeles Times
described his monthly performances as “combination moderator and lion tamer.” To see samples of his works, his latest hair colors and travels, visit Stan at
www.StanKent.com
or email him at [email protected].