Mile High Club

Good couples should have good communication. This is the foundation for any and all respectful, sensible relationships. You’re to be on the same page about the past and the present in order to work towards your shared future.

If the above is true, then it is easy to arrive at the conclusion that miscommunication might doom a relationship—make it fall apart due to confusion and misunderstanding. Perhaps, when the situation is at its most dire, it may reach a point of no communication altogether, where things aren’t said and important matters go undiscussed.

You would consider this truth, but things are not that black and white. Miscommunication’s not all bad; it may sometimes even lead to rather amusing circumstances. See: today. It’s an excellent example of where not being on the same page helped you both arrive at quite the fortunate outcome. 

~~

You both decide, about five hours into the flight, to head to the restrooms together—together, but separate. For Nagyung, though…

The lights are dimmed, most passengers are asleep or too engrossed in their preferred form of entertainment to realize, and the cabin crew seems to be in a quick lull between services. 

You walk with Nagyung towards the end of the plane. At either side, a door. As you open yours, a bit of turbulence—

And you’re pushed into the enclosed space. It’s tight, compact, and so not meant for two. 

“Nakko,” you start, taken aback. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying.” She has her back towards you, fidgeting. “To close this damn door.”

A beat. It clicks.

“Also trying to get us banned from the airline,” you joke. You managed to lean against the back wall to allow for more space. 

“No way you blame me for your idea.” She turns, faces you. A mischievous smirk on her lips. “You don’t get to back out now.” 

“I don’t think being pushed into a tiny, confined space against my will was my idea.” You’re not entirely clueless. “Don’t get me wrong, you get to do what you want, but the credit’s all yours.”

“Then what was that all about earlier?”

Your eyes search blankly around the walls while your brain tries. Nothing. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Rawdogging.”

You chuckle. Some words definitely got lost between your incessant chatter and the flight attendants’ safety briefing earlier. “The flight.”

Nagyung squats down as best she can, still listening, but still focused. “What?”

“Rawdogging the flight. As in—here.” You help her undo the knot at the front of your sweatpants. “It was a stupid trend a while ago. You had to, like—okay, Christ."

She slides your two layers only halfway down your thighs. Cradles the balls on the one hand and starts pumping your already-complicit length with the other. Her palms are cold and the contrasting temperature against your warm blood flow feels good.

“So, we’re not fucking?” At least she was kinda paying attention. 

Stare down at her big, gorgeous eyes. The oversized tee she’s wearing does surprisingly little around her chest to hide her big, round, gorgeous—

“No, yeah.” Your gaze comes back up to hers. “We’re totally fucking.”

She nods in agreement, tight fist still going at your cock, albeit still dry. “Good.” But her mouth promptly takes care of that, also.

It was never a proper fantasy of yours. You had heard the tales, the online discourse and jokes. You’ve even watched porn about it, obviously (obviously?), but the fact that it was so mythologized in the first place made it sound like even less of an attainable goal. Oh, and also the fact that an economy fare’s lavatory was the least likely iteration of it to play out, in your head. It could’ve happened in a private plane, perhaps? Maybe the underlying dream was being that monetarily privileged to begin with.

(Nagyung’s tight, wet cunt gives you a warm welcome to the mile high club.)

Your cock’s halfway slick with spit when you first slide in. You fail, in all honestly, to make it look pretty—pornographic, if you will—but the fact that your psyche is quick to crumble whenever you two start fucking each other satisfies the fantasy in its entirety.

Nagyung is still facing you, her back against the fickle door. A leg of hers stretches forward and plants her foot on the wall that you still lean back on. In between you both? Well, what a blessing, skirts are.

With the hem held and pinned up against her pelvis, Nagyung’s index and middle finger keep her now-ruined underwear off to the side to allow your cock to fit and stretch and wreck her needy hole.

Her other hand’s over her lips; her fucked-out eyes are shut.

You can tell how every other thrust pushes you deeper. Your breaths are shaky. Fuck.

Turbulence. 

Stabilizing yourself with an arm along the wall, you feel your cock throb and leak a thick droplet of precum due to the abrupt vibration.

(Again, fuck.)

Nagyung takes the hand off her own mouth. “How long has it been?”

“Ten?” You’re sweating.

The seat belt sign comes on.

“You have five left,” she whispers.

But it’ll definitely take way less. See: the angle. It’s taking no effort from either of you. 

With how your cock meets her womb, your hands find themselves free to roam, and seeing how the hem of her shirt falls right above the pulled-up skirt, you find it easy to decide on where to go.

Nagyung’s free hand helps you pull the thick fabric up and mostly over her bra. She’s suddenly all on display.

Take a moment to appraise: her pussy, pink and puffy, creaming on your pistoning length; her tummy all on show, huffing as she tries to quiet the plenty of grunts and hums of pure, utter pleasure; and, god, her tits, chest flush-red from the precipitous nature of your deranged escapade. 

Your throat is dry, voice like gravel. “You look so good taking my cock like this.”

She keens.

Both of your hands find it appropriate to grasp at her tits then. Your palms play with the bra, fingers finding flesh and fondling to your heart’s content.

And your hips pump, pump, pump.

“Fucking cum,” she commands all needy and cute.

Feel her pussy clench and, yep.

You cum.