I was in the last row of the plane, alone there, waiting for the door the close and the red-eye to take off. I was flying to Los Angeles for work and I knew this was going to be a rough flight. I can never fall asleep on planes so I was destined to time staring out the window, rifling through the airline magazine, reading a book or watching a lousy movie on the seatback in front of me as I looked at my watch over and over, counting each of the 3,000 miles.
The last passenger scooted in the door at the last minute and hustled down the aisle … looking, looking, looking for his seat, which, of course, ended up being in my row. So much for stretching out across seats. I was destined to remain cramped in my window seat.
He sat down, glanced over, smiled, shrugged and stuffed his bag under the seat in front of him. He was about 5-foot-4, maybe 130 pounds, with dark shoulder-length hair. The good news was that he was fit enough that he wasn’t going to spill into the seat next to me.
I grabbed a magazine out of my bag and started reading.
“You play?” he asked.
At first, it didn’t compute and then I realized what he was talking about: Golf. The magazine I was mindlessly thumbing through was Golf Digest. I had grabbed a copy at the terminal convenience store, along with a Diet Coke and some M&Ms.
“Define ‘play,’” I replied with a smirk.
Actually, I wasn’t that bad. No one wants to hear about your golf game – even people who ask. So, I tell them I stink, which is true compared to good golfers, and if I ever get the chance to play with them, I’ve covered myself if I play poorly, which happens.
We exchanged small talk – where we played, whether we’ve ever played any really good courses. I gave him the second commercial on my round at Augusta National and dropped a few other places I’d played … Winged Foot, Oakmont, Baltusrol, and so on. My stint as a golf writer had provided me with some pretty cool opportunities and stories.
“Nice,” he said. “Every golfer wants to play Augusta.”
And that was it for now.
I went back to my magazine. And then, about 10 minutes later, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye: As he laid with his eyes closed, he was slowly running his finger up and down his thigh. I didn’t think much about it until I took a closer look. He was actually caressing his cock, which was growing inside his pants, along his thigh. Since he couldn’t see that I was watching, I watched. My heart raced. But why? I had never done anything sexual with a man, had never even touched another man’s cock, although lately, I had thought about it. Maybe it was the voyeurism. Slowly, his cock got bigger and bigger … and it was quite impressive from what I could see.
I suddenly realized I was getting hard, too. My cock was throbbing as I watched.
He caught me.
He opened his eyes just a slit and saw me. Or at least I thought he did. But he didn’t move. OK, I thought, if he wants to play this game and be watched, then I’m going to watch him. I’m not going to turn away. That’s what he wants, right? To make me feel uncomfortable?
He kept running his finger up and down the shaft of his cock, at one point grabbing it and moving it.
Then he opened his eyes and caught me. For real this time.
He smiled.
“Sorry, I was dreaming,” he said.
“Must’ve been some dream,” I said.
He moved to the middle seat.
“Want to hear about it?”
He caught me totally off-guard.
“Uh, sure, why not. It’s a long flight,” I said.
“Well,” he said. “You and I were playing golf and we were riding in the cart together and you kept brushing against me, and I got really turned on. As we rode in the cart, you reached over and felt my cock through my shorts, grabbed it and mocked me for being hard. I almost came right then.
“And then I woke up.”
“Nice dream,” I said with a laugh. “But that’s not going to happen. I’ve never touched a guy.”
“Ever been curious?” he asked.
“No.”
“C’mon, never?”
“OK, a little, I guess,” I said, feeling my body temperature rise.
“Want to touch mine?”
“Uh …”
“Go ahead,” he whispered. “We’re all the way back here. No one is around.”
He took my hand and it over his cock through his pants. He moaned.
“Do it. More,” he whispered. “Please.”
I rubbed my hand over his cock. It was rock hard.
“Wait a minute,” he said.
He reached into his bag, pulled out a windbreaker and put it across his lap. He moved his hand underneath, then took my hand and placed it underneath it, too.
His cock was out.
I pulled my hand back.
“Stroke me,” he said. “Please. Don’t you want to? I can see you do.”
I reached under and slowly stroked his cock. My heart was racing again. My head was swimming. The excitement was consuming me.
He laid back and started gently thrusting his cock into my hand. He was close. I could tell. I jerked him off faster. He stifled another moan and came. I could feel the hot on my hands. I continued to stroke him. I remembered how I enjoy being milked and stroked to the last drop.
He sighed deeply and discreetly wiped himself with a hand towel from his bag.
“OK, your turn,” he said.
“No way,” I said with a laugh.
But he tossed the windbreaker in my lap.
“Take it out,” he said.
I don’t know why, but I did. I was hard and throbbing and it wouldn’t take long.
He stroked me slowly, keeping me on the edge for what seemed like minutes. God, I wanted to. I needed to.
“Let me know when you’re going to,” he said.
About seconds later, I couldn’t hold back anymore. I whispered: “Now.”
He dropped his head and swallowed every drop as I came as hard as I ever have in my life. Before I could think about what had just happened – I had been sucked off a man! A man! — I quickly zipped up. A few minutes later, the flight attendant approached.
“How are you guys doing back here?” she asked.
“Couldn’t be better,” I said.
“Yup,” he chimed in. “We’ve become new friends.”
I slept the rest of the way to Los Angeles.
And we made plans to play golf together … with a cart.
Story submitted by Adult FriendFinder member Thr3wood .
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