Mile High

Mile High
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

I had to get up early to get to the airport in time for this early flight. I have the row of seats to myself, which is always a treat, but the plane is almost empty so today plenty of space is the norm. Despite the light load, the crew moves as determined and efficient as though the plane were loaded. The safety presentation goes on like a big show although the audience is sparse and sleepy. We start to roll and the sun slowly rises in the East.

I could have slept in late today, should probably have stayed in bed. Erica waits for me in Cleveland and I hate to disappoint her. She’s been waiting for four years for me to come and take her away but all she ever gets are these daytrip visits. Sometimes I want to question her motives, why does she do it, why does she put up with it, what does she want from me? But I don’t because I don’t think I’d like her answers. I’d rather things just went on the way they have been.

Rise, rise, rise, the plane slants upward, slowly climbing above a thin layers of clouds to greet the sunrise in a chilly blaze of glory. I’m excited to go see Erica again today, happy to be able to take her in my arms again, eager to feast on the erotic banquet of her nubile flesh. Thinking about her, about the joys that await my arrival, I find myself squirming in my seat. I’m a good looking guy but Erica is heavenly. I can barely believe that she’s waiting for me.

When I met her, four years ago, she wasn’t in a good place. A series of young men had used and abused her good graces, squeezing the ripe fruit and leaving the rind behind. I know Erica saw me as someone stable, a reliable and sturdy man of solid good looks and a sound financial foundation.  We saw each other frequently at first, mostly because business frequently took me to Ohio. The last few years had reduced our contact to monthly and less often, a situation that did nothing to reduce our passion but did plenty to increase our appetite. The less often we saw each other, the hungrier each visit became.

I couldn’t wait to see her, but lately the desire has been more sexual than personal. Our visits were less frequent and now were becoming shorter. Weeks became weekends became days became hours. I’ll see her today for about three, maybe four hours. Six hours on the plane, two hours of business and four hours of fucking with Erica. We might get lunch together, depending how the meetings go, but probably not. I’ll swing by her place. We’ll share a drink, tear off our clothes and a few hours later, slowly dress and make excuses. I’ll promise to be back soon and promise someday I’ll stay. But I won’t.

I can’t help but feel ridiculous, flying halfway across the country to squeeze a boob and grab an ass. I didn’t have to go to Cleveland today. I could have made more money going to Albany. I let Frank have Albany so I could see Erica. Is an afternoon of slap and tickle really worth eight thousand dollars? I know Erica likes me and everything but wouldn’t she have preferred some of that cash to my sweaty thrusting? Why am I doing this?

When I was younger, I didn’t have these doubts. A chance to screw a pretty lady wasn’t something I would have ever passed up. I would have been to the airport early, pushing the staff to let me board. I would have sent notes to the pilot asking him to hurry things up, get into the jet stream, put some pedal to the metal. If there was a line for the taxi, I would have started running instead. I was eager. I was determined. I knew what I wanted and wasn’t going to waste time getting there.

I still crave her. I still want her badly. I can’t even think about her pretty pussy and tight ass and voluminous breasts without getting bothered. Everything about Erica excites me. As I fly along the morning landscape, rushing past miles and miles, rapidly getting close to my rendezvous with the luscious siren, I can feel the heat building within me. Nothing will stand in my way. I must have her.

But then I look at myself, a middle-aged man, lofted into space by jet engines drinking rocket fuel, speeding my way from airport to airport, just to get my dick played with and I start to feel foolish. So much trouble to scratch an itch, one that quite frankly could have been taken care of with some porn and a shower. I want Erica but I don’t love her. I don’t even really like her. I don’t want to go to lunch with her. I dread the conversation. We are too far apart to share anything. We only want to escape.

Forget our troubles in a naked paradise. Forget our lives as we toss and turn and thrust and moan. Forget our responsibilities in a darkened room, rolling in the sheets. Forget our names. Forget our plans. Forget tomorrow. Forget everything and touch a human being.

The steward pours me a cola. I thank him with a nod.

Sitting here, flying at ridiculous speeds, I suddenly have the feeling that I can’t do this any more. I feel myself getting old. I feel myself grasping at straws. No amount of sex is going to restore the past. No physical love can take the place of the romantic love I actually need. Erica is putting off the inevitable. I’m wasting my time and, worse yet, I’m wasting hers.

The plane begins to descend. I’m going this alone.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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