mile high fantasy

The plane hadn’t even reached cruising altitude before Maxwell was squirming in his seat, teeth sunk into his bottom lip to stifle the whimpers threatening to spill out. Every bump of turbulence sent a jolt straight to his cock, imagining it was Daddy’s thrusts instead—rough and relentless, pinning him against the cramped bathroom wall while strangers lingered just outside the door.

It was pathetic how fast he cracked. How quick he ducked into that tiny lavatory with his phone clutched in shaking hands just to show off what belonged to me even at 30,000 feet in the air.

The mirror caught everything:

- The flush creeping down his chest.

- The way his fingers struggled to spread himself wide enough for the camera.

- That dripping hole already loosened from nights spent wishing it was my cock stretching him open instead of his own pathetic toys.

*“Missed you so much,”* he mouthed against the screen, too afraid of being overheard but too greedy to stay silent.

Then quieter—

*“Wish this was yours.”*

As if it wasn’t already. As if miles ever changed whose name he chanted when coming untouched later against the sink. Desperate. Filthy. Mine.