M/F ~ Age Gap ~ Older Man Younger Woman ~ Billionaire & Virgin E-Rom

He pounds my pussy on his private jet

I almost gave him my virginity once. And now he’s flying me to Ireland and pleasuring me on the plane!

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Melanie

Drinking isn’t something I partake in very often. Less often than most, I’d say. Only on holidays. New Year’s Eve, maybe and New Year’s Day. St. Patrick’s Day, obviously. My birthday. Friends’ birthdays. Mardi Gras. And Christmas — on years I don’t fly home.

That’s about it. But even when I do drink, I don’t drink to drink, which is why I only do it on special occasions that people are celebrating.

I drink to socialize. With one person in particular. My best friend Denise.

She should be here right now. In this bar. I should be drinking with her, not waiting for her to text back in hopes that she’ll show up.

People are starting to stare at me.

It’s St. Patrick’s Day tomorrow and not only am I the sole person in this bar who isn’t wearing green, but I’m also sitting here alone looking like some sort of loner.

At the very least, I could have brought a date.

But the whole point of hanging out with Denise is spending time alone with her. For the past who knows how long, Denise and I have spent the holidays joined arm in arm, with drinks in our hands.

However, nearly a year ago, I was dating a guy. Not dating but seeing. Even “seeing” might be a stretch.

But basically, whatever the correct term for what we were doing might be, I was enjoying spending time with a man who was unlike anyone I’d ever been with, although that might just be because I haven’t been with all that many people.

In fact, I’m still a virgin, which is even more embarrassing to admit than the fact that I’m here at this bar alone on St. Patrick’s Day.

There was a problem when it came to this man, though, and that was that I spent too much time with him.

He was my first… well, not boyfriend. But something close to boyfriend. We didn’t call it anything official, because he was Irish and only here in New York City for one week, for his work. He was older than me, and seemed to have a lot more money, too.

We basically drunkenly hooked up in a bar — this bar I’m in right now, actually — as well as every time we could after that for the week or so that he was in town.

We didn’t have sex, because, like I said, I’m a virgin and, at the time, at least, I thought I was saving that for The Real Relationship, but sometimes I regret that decision, because he was so hot and such a good kisser.

I loved the way his tongue wrapped around mine, pulling it in so that I had no choice but to reciprocate. I loved it so much I let him put his hand up my shirt and feel what he called “my big, juicy, gorgeous tits.” And then I let him put his hand up my skirt and pull my panties to the side and feel what he called my “little, wet, tight pussy.”

I’d loved it all a little too much.

Because of my obsessive personality, I couldn’t stop myself from being around this hot, rich, older Irish guy as much as possible, especially since he was only here in town for such a short amount of time.

Unfortunately, though, his stay happened to coincide with Denise’s birthday weekend. I didn’t get to see her because I was hanging out with him.

Many tearful apologies later, Denise and I made a pact to never let a significant other or potential significant other come between us. That was a reasonable pact to make, since it doesn’t involve anything too demanding from either of us.

That’s what I thought at first, anyway.

While I have managed to keep my end of the bargain, even if that’s only because I just haven’t been able to find anyone who excites me as much as that Irish guy did, Denise has spent the last two months postponing and cancelling any kind of plans we tried to make together.

When I confronted her about this, she told me that the reason she couldn’t make it so many times was just because her work was particularly busy and stressful.

Obviously, I empathized with her at first, but then it seemed to happen too many times for that excuse to be true. I knew her job hadn’t been that busy before and I also knew that she hadn’t received a big promotion or raise.

Denise is a very practical person, and it wouldn’t make sense for her to keep working for so long at a job that has suddenly become so much more demanding, for the exact same amount of pay and in the same position and title. So, I started investigating.

It took some Instagram stalking to find out the truth, and what I ended up discovering was disheartening, to put it lightly.

The first six pictures on her Instagram profile were nothing out of the ordinary.

They featured Denise in a bikini, in a dress, having a drink, eating a fancy meal, and they were all supposedly #relatable pictures of her without makeup and still looking like a beauty. So, not really all that relatable for many people, especially an average Jane like me, who was chubby and had skin issues.

But still, everything that was posted seemed very Denise-like. She didn’t understand what it was like for us mere mortals who weren’t born with flawless skin and the perfect natural smile.

So, nothing looked like it was out of the ordinary. At least not until I clicked on her tagged pictures. That’s when I saw something of note.

None of the pictures she was tagged in even had her in the shot. They were all just of some Brooklyn hunk enjoying his very Instagrammable life.

So, what could possibly be the reason that this random man was tagging Denise?

Was he a spambot?

A creeper?

Nope.

Denise was the one taking all the pictures.

And I do mean all the pictures.

It turns out that for the past two months, she’s been spending every moment possible with this guy she’s never even mentioned to me.

But it all became crystal clear as to why she’s been too busy to hang out with me.

Despite my rage at this discovery, I’ve actually been looking forward to finally being able to see Denise tonight. The Instagram man has yet to be brought up in any of our conversations and I don’t want to blindside her with any questions about him. All I wanted to do today was enjoy some disgustingly green-colored beers with my bestie.

But it seems like the only company I’ll have tonight is a cold glass of Bailey’s Banana Blaster.

I don’t know much about drinks, but a rare and blended concoction of rum, some banana flavor, and Bailey’s Irish Cream is enough to keep this girl happy.

At least for a while.

But not even the liquid magic I’ve been drinking can keep me this patient for much longer. Especially when it’s almost all gone, and I’d look even more pathetic ordering a second round all by myself.

It really does feel like people are starting to stare at me: the woman flying solo, wearing black and red instead of green, and drinking a beige drink to boot.

And whether it’s all in my head or not, I’m annoyed. Even if people don’t think I look ridiculous, I think I’m acting ridiculous!

I could be cramming for a test I have coming up. But because I hold my friendship with Denise high on my list of priorities, I’d told myself that art history would have to wait. Instead, I’m the only thing waiting tonight.

Like a tick, I keep checking my phone for the time. For a text. For any sign that I’m not sitting here in vain.

She told me she’d be here. We’d agreed on 9 o’clock. And it’s now 11:30.

I tell myself that maybe I shouldn’t be angry. She may have been held up. But the more cynical and probably correct part of myself can’t help bad add: Or more like held onto to by a brawny, bearded, Brooklyn boy.

Hard to say.

But I figure that a quick look on Instagram should clear things up.

As I scroll through her profile, I see that there are no new posts from her, so that’s good. But let’s see about her tagged pictures.

And there it is.

There he is. Partying with friends, wearing green. And having his picture taken by Denise.

Being angry isn’t going to help anyone, I try to tell myself.

I’m not going to be angry.

Disappointment feels like it’s creeping up my spine, but can it really be disappointment if I more or less expected this outcome?

Is it jealousy, then?

Am I jealous that Denise is having fun at a party with a ton of people and her attractive — if not a-bit-too-egotistical-and-not-to-mention-hairy-for-my-tastes — boyfriend?

Am I especially sour because it’s been almost a year since I last even felt a man touch me in an erotic manner?

Yes.

I am.

I might as well simply own it, and perhaps I have a right to be feeling it.

It just doesn’t seem fair. Fairness is all I’m asking for — it’s the basis of the pact that she and I had forged.

This pact scared me off of dating for a while because Denise means a lot more to me than any guy ever could — especially when I’d never even met a guy I’d liked as much as the Irish guy and, now that he was long gone, I don’t expect to meet one I like that much ever again.

But tonight sure is making me feel like this friendship may be one-sided.

At the moment, I’m just angry. I know that even though she hasn’t been acting like it, Denise is still my friend, and an irreplaceable one at that.

But I’d really appreciate her being here when the sensation of eyeballs from random people staring at me feels more like being pricked at with a million tiny needles from all directions.

Although, come to think of it, right now I’m only feeling the stabbing of needles from random eyeballs from one direction.

And that direction would be the other end of the bar, where an oddly familiar guy is sitting and staring at me as if he wants to touch my “big, juicy, gorgeous tits” and “little, wet, tight pussy.”

And there’s something about him that makes me want to let him.

Or should I say let him again?

Because that same something about him makes me think he already has.

Melanie

Across the bar, a man sits typing away at his laptop, shooting a quick glance in my direction between sips of his pint of whatever boozy drink people have on St. Patrick’s Day.

There really is something uncomfortably familiar about this guy. I’m unreasonably drawn to him, but I can’t put my finger on why. Aside from him being a dream boat, that is.

I’ve lived in New York City for half of my life now. I’m used to turning a corner and running into five male models, none of whom would give me the time of day.

This guy keeps staring at me, though. Whenever he stands up to go to the bathroom or whenever he thinks I’m not looking back, he snatches a glance.

I know him.

I don’t know how but I know him.

Maybe from TV?

Is he someone famous?

Or perhaps he’s just some sort of hallucination brought on by the near-toxic levels of alcohol radiating from the breath of everyone at this bar.

He has red hair, attention-stealing blue eyes, and of course, a green shirt, underneath his mostly brown outfit. If he were two feet shorter, he’d look like a stereotypical leprechaun. All he needs is a pair of brogue-style shoes.

I start to think I know who it is — and that I’ve known since the minute I first glimpsed him — but I tell myself that it can’t be true. It’s impossible. It has to be someone else.

Finally the fire-headed man walks over to the middle of the bar where the bartenders are, to order another drink. I figure it’s the perfect chance to unglue myself from this seat and find out how I know this guy.

So, I head over there as well and ask for another Bailey’s Banana Blaster.

“I see you still like those, Melanie,” the mystery man comments.

Hearing his voice brings it all back.

The sound of my name on his lips sends shivers down my spine, and makes goosebumps pop up everywhere else on my body.

“Shane,” I stutter. “So, it is you.”

The fact that I wasn’t totally sure of his identity can’t be held against me. I’d never seen him with a beard before now.

Growing a full beard and stepping back into someone’s life after nearly a whole year should be an arrestable offense.

A rush of memories hits me like a crashing wave.

The week I’d spent with Shane had been one of the best of my life.

I was 18 years old, and a lot less worn out from college back then, since it had just started.

My diet didn’t yet consist of microwaved meals and fast food, so my body was a lot tighter.

And I had run into a sexy, ginger-haired man here in this very same bar, who, before even properly introducing himself, had announced that he was looking for someplace to eat something unforgivably American.

Looking back, that may have been the only time that living in NYC for years had come in handy for a date. I asked him how much time he had to spare, and he told me that he’d be willing to free up his entire schedule for the day if it meant spending the day with me and finding a proper American meal.

Shit.

Just remembering it still makes me weak in the knees.

Why is it that American men can’t flirt like that?

Those Irish guys must have a special gift.

We got to know each other considerably well on the ride over to the restaurant of my choice.

He was quite the chatterbox that first day, which I first attributed to the fact that he must be nervous, before I got to know him better and realized that “nervous” was never a word that could be used to describe Shane.

Confident? Yes.

Even egotistical? Yes.

Charming? Most definitely.

But never nervous.

So, in retrospect, I guess he was talking so much so that he could pry some conversation out of me, since I tend to be a bit shy when first meeting someone new. But whatever the reason for it, his charm really melted away any shyness I’d retained from being a loner throughout most of my school years.

Before long, we’d made it to Long Island, home of the most American restaurant I could think of: The All-American Hamburger Drive-In. It’s a Long Island staple, but tourists sure do love the supposed novelty of it.

Plus, it’s the best meal you could buy for under ten dollars. The hamburgers are made the same way they have been since the place first opened in 1963, and their prices, too, have remained the same, thanks to the never-ending foot traffic.

Despite talking so much earlier, the handsome man I was with soon lapsed into silence as he started happily and messily going to town on his double cheeseburger before he finally decided to introduce himself.

“I’m Shane, by the way. Holy fuck. It just hit me that I haven’t even told you my name. Let’s start again. Hello, my name is Shane O’Neill. You already know almost everything else about me,” he’d said, before chuckling in a deep, manly way.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Shane. Or at least to finally know your name,” I’d said with a grin. “My folks called me Melanie, but everyone else calls me Mel.”

For the rest of that day and for seven more after that, I spent every waking moment with the charming red-headed hunk I finally knew was named Shane.

That week changed me. For more reasons than one. Shane opened my mind sexually and romantically.

We hadn’t known each other more than twenty-four hours before he was inviting me to fancy dinners which ended at his place. It was the first time I had ever agreed to a date knowing I would end up having to show my entire body to someone else.

Although I was a virgin then and technically still am now, before that, I wasn’t too well-versed in the art of oral sex, but by the end of that week, I can confidently say that I became an expert cocksucker.

I didn’t get the chance to become an expert fucker or even a novice fucker with Shane, but that’s just because he wouldn’t tell me how long he’d be in New York and I couldn’t get it out of my head that I may be losing my virginity to a stranger I’d never see again.

I think I could have broken my rule about not having sex until I was in a serious relationship with him — after all, I’d already bent it nearly beyond repair — but I couldn’t do that if he might just vanish the moment after taking my virginity.

Being with him in a lot of sexual ways — but not the biggest sexual way — and knowing that our fun could continue made me feel bad and dirty in a good way.

But the thought of being with him all the way and then never seeing him again made me feel gross, like he was only spending time with me so that he could use and abuse me and then dump me like yesterday’s trash.

Calling it a fear of mine seems a bit extreme but there was something about that idea that made me feel uncomfortable. Yet I still received a lot of oral and manual pleasure from him and loved practicing my own skills in that regard on him.

But then once the week was over, he was gone, needing to head back to Ireland. He’d had to return to work, as he’d only been here for a business trip. So, I was right to be afraid of having my first time be with a foreigner.

I hadn’t been able to get him out of my head, even though I’d really wanted to.

Now, the sound of Shane putting his credit card back in his wallet snaps me back to reality, and I realize that I’ve been thinking about the past for too long. Apparently, Shane had already taken his card out and paid for both our drinks, and I’d been so lost in thought that I hadn’t noticed.

Now, Shane’s starting to look weirded out by my silence.

“You’re back,” I muster. “And you paid for my drink. Here…”

I start to rummage around in my purse for some cash to give him, but he stops me by placing a hand on my wrist.

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists.

His big, strong hand feels so familiar on my body that it almost seems like it had never broken away from it. I feel tingles radiating from his hand to my arm, and I also feel my panties getting drenched.

Fuck, I silently curse them. Why must my body betray my mind?

“Care to chat over some candlelight?” he asks me.

The two of us walk over to a table in the corner, and he stops and picks up his laptop from the end of the bar, where he’d been working on it. Many thoughts run through my head with each step we take.

Does he think I’m going to end up sleeping with him tonight?

How long is he even in town for this time?

Is it a good idea for tables at an Irish bar on St. Patrick’s Day to be candlelit?

There are so many people packed into this place that that has to be some sort of fire hazard.

But more importantly, why am I not mad at him?

I can spur up rage towards Denise for ditching me and breaking our pact, but I can’t bring up any anger towards the man who was responsible for letting the best week of my life end in heartbreak.

I suppose that might have something to do with the fact that he’s so fucking hot.

So hot that just about anything he’s done might be forgivable.

Melanie

“So,” Shane starts out as he eyes me over the table. “How have you been, Melanie?”

Isn’t that the million-dollar question?

I find that it wouldn’t be too friendly to blow up at him over leaving me without giving me any notice, so I decide to catch him up on my otherwise normal life. School, work, internships, etc.

He listens intently to everything I have to say, nodding here and there.

“No man, then? A lass like yourself, alone on St. Paddy’s, of all days? You’re not waiting for a Tinder date to meet you?”

“No man. Not even a friend. I was waiting for Denise but she — well, she’s probably at work, being held up. So, I’m flying solo,” I half-lie.

He shrugs.

“Maybe your night doesn’t have to end solo.”

“Don’t you start getting any ideas, Shane. You’re lucky I’m even sitting down with you after you left me to go back to Ireland.”

As I fake-pout, I know I’m acting like a baby about things. Clearly, he had to go back to where he was from. I just wish that somehow, some way, things would have ended up differently.

He nods, clearly not wanting to talk about how our relationship ended last year.

“In that case, would you like to help me out in another way?” he asks me, with a sly smile on his face.

“What other way?” I ask, my curiosity getting the best of me.

He points to my drink.

“You ordered something with Bailey’s Irish Cream in it, right? You really like to drink that?”

“Yeah, for St. Patrick’s Day,” I tell him.

Shane opens up his laptop.

“Then would you like to help me out by taking a survey? It’s just a small questionnaire for work.”

“I will never understand you, Shane O’Neill. Working on St. Patrick’s Day weekend? So that’s what you’ve been doing over there on your laptop? Work. Here I thought you were writing the next great American novel.”

“Well, it’d be Irish, now, wouldn’t it? Or at least, it’d be from the perspective of an Irishman. And I’m really not here in New York all that often and when I do, I come here — or just about anywhere I go — for work. Maybe I’m lucky enough to spend a day or two of leisure here and there, but I mostly travel for work.”

I nod my head and he slides his laptop over to me.

Work was one subject he’d been pretty silent about last time. He enjoyed talking about his hobbies and interests, his childhood and youth — but not so much his current life or work.

So, this was something new I was finding out about him, and I couldn’t help but feel intrigued.

“Let me get this straight,” I tell him. “You travel for your job, doing what exactly?”

“Research. Marketing. PR. I work for the more paperwork-filled side of a brewery back in Ireland. And since we’re a very popular brand with tourists, we’re trying to see if it’d be smart to branch out to exporting to the States,” he explains. “We’re normally a brand exclusive to Ireland, but as I’m often reminded, there’s more money to be made elsewhere.”

“So, this is a survey on alcohol, then?”

“Yeah, I’m dying to know what kind of cream you’re into? Thick, Irish, white, cream that feels just right going down your throat, or… something else.”

The gall of this guy!

I’ll give him credit where credit is due — he is shameless.

And he can see right through me, I fear.

I want to be mad at him, but I am too attracted to him for that. Not just sexually, either. He’s so good at disarming me and getting me to laugh even when I want nothing more than to snap at him for leaving me.

I don’t respond to his flirtatious remarks. Instead, I just start checking off “Yes” and “No” boxes on the screen. Until he apologizes, I’m not giving him anything he wants.

Regarding the survey, I don’t even think I can help him out that much. All of these questions are about Irish creams that aren’t Bailey’s, and that’s the only one I’ve ever tried or even heard of. Most of these brand names are totally foreign to me.

“Shane, I swear I’m not doing this to spite you or anything, but I don’t think I can help you with your survey. As you may recall, I don’t really drink all that much and the only one of the Irish creams — or creams in general, more accurately — that I have even tried is Bailey’s. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. But you really should broaden your horizons, darlin’.”

I chuckle and ask him, “And how exactly would I do that?”

“Fly back with me to Ireland. I can show you the ropes. And a whole lot more, if you want.”

“What I want, Shane, is an apology,” I say sternly, telling myself not to give in to his very attractive offer.

He’s probably not even being serious about it. I don’t want to fall for his charm again and end up getting hurt like last time.

“You swept me off my feet for a week, showed me a life of luxury, and then you left without saying a word. Is that not worthy of an apology to you?”

Shane looks down at his lap and takes a deep breath.

“Look, Melanie, I’m… I am really sorry. I’m not great with having to say goodbye and… I didn’t realize you had become so attached. And what surprised me was that I, too, had become attached. And it scared me.”

He gulps and I’m rather surprised he admitted that. He’s not one to show any signs of weakness.

“But I’ve learned and grown a lot as a result of that experience, and I feel like tonight is fate,” he continues.

“I don’t want to waste this opportunity again. You and I both ended up at this bar again at the same time… sure, a big part of that is probably because I came here looking for you, hoping that maybe you’d be back here again, because I haven’t been able to forget you, but still, you came back too and that’s fate right there for us; that’s great luck that we have on our side… and I think it’s fate telling us to have a second go at it.”

I just stare at him, happy yet a bit skeptical that he’s telling me all of this.

“I’m deeply sorry for what happened before,” Shane concludes. “And if you can accept my apology, I’d seriously love to have you accompany me back to Ireland.”

I did say that all I needed from him was an apology.

And he gave me much more than that.

The least I can do is be open-minded and try to take what he’s saying at face value, as hard as it all is to believe.

Specifically, I can’t believe that he admitted he had come here to see me.

And that apparently, he hadn’t been able to get me off his mind, either, just as I hadn’t been able to get him off mine.

I feel anticipation twist my stomach when I finally decide to do something crazy.

“When’s the flight?”

“Tonight,” he says with that same deep chuckle that had made me want to talk to him more just a little bit ago, even though my brain was screaming at me to run away.

I’m so glad I listened to my heart… and my panties… instead.

But now he’s wanting to take things to a whole new level.

“Tonight?!” I repeat.

“Yes. Very soon, in fact,” he says, as if to heighten the drama. “A St. Patrick’s Day flight. So, make up your mind quickly.”

I don’t know how I can do that.

Me going to Ireland with him would be crazy.

Wouldn’t it be?

What’s the worst that could happen? I wonder.

And then I think: Famous last words.

But all I say is, “Sure. Why not? We already spent a week in New York together. Time for the same thing but in your stomping grounds instead of mine!”

“That’s the Mel I know and remember.”

As Shane smiles his devilish grin at me and winks at me, I know I’ve made the right choice.

Or at least I hope I have!

Shane

“Cumming. Your last name is Cumming?” I shake my head in wonder. “How did I never learn this? Melanie Cumming. You could be a porn star with that name!”

“You know, I’ve heard that career suggestion a lot since high school, but it wasn’t always because of my last name,” Melanie says with a smile. “It was usually because I was really used to not wearing a bra by the time these girls started growing in, and I just didn’t want to go out and start wearing bras. They’re unreasonably expensive.”

She has to be joking. Otherwise, she’s just too damn cute, and I’ll have to not just fly her to Ireland, but also never let her come back!

“Melanie Cummings, the schoolgirl who never wore bras, huh? To this day?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you wear bras now?” I ask her.

“Once we’re on the plane, I’ll take my jacket off and if it’s cold enough, you’ll get your answer.”

Plane.

She thinks we’re getting on a plane.

I suppose that’s only fair since I haven’t spoken to her too much about my job or how much money I make, but she spent an entire week with me last year. I doubt it’s easy for her to forget the meals at five-star restaurants and the penthouse suites we stayed in.

Still, I hadn’t even realized she wasn’t wearing a bra. So, both of us had a lot on our minds at the time — mainly, each other — and our forgetfulness is therefore forgivable.

As I expected, she’s very confused when we go to a smaller boarding area in the airport, but her confusion turns into wide-eyed excitement when she sees the luxury jet we’ll be boarding.

“I prefer to fly in style,” I explain.

The way Melanie carefully steps on the plane, cocking her head from one side to the other with each step she takes, makes me think that this may be her first time on a private jet. And I suppose that only makes sense.

Melanie boards the jet very delicately, as if it’s made of glass, making sure not to be too loud or press on something too harshly, lest it crack and break.

“Are we going to be the only people on this flight?” she asks in amazement.

“Aside from the pilot? Yes,” I tell her.

Melanie falls back on one of the cushioned leather seats and takes in the luxury of it all, checking the drawers as if looking for treasure or loose change. She finds bottles of champagne and asks if we can pop some as a celebration.

“What are we celebrating, my darlin’ lass?” I ask her.

“A trip overseas? A mini-vacation? Or just that we ran into each other and we’re getting a second chance?” she suggests.

“I’ll drink to that. But let’s wait until we reach cruising altitude.”

The jet takes off and for a while, Melanie and I don’t say anything to each other. We sit in silence and watch the clouds get nearer and nearer until we’ve sailed high over them.

This silence had me lost in my own thoughts. I’m glad that I’m taking a break from life with Melanie, but I should be focusing more on my work. I have deadlines to meet. Very close deadlines. But something keeps distracting me.

Once we reach cruising altitude, I connect my phone to the WiFi and am immediately bombarded with messages from work.

I’m supposed to have at least thirteen more people finish that survey in person, but I just don’t have the motivation to do it. I’d much rather leave a posting for it on Craigslist or something, but I’ve done that before, and my employers found out.

I understand that it helps to talk to the person taking the survey because it reduces inaccurate answers due to anonymous lying or confusion that can’t be cleared up when there’s no one around to answer specific questions the survey-taker may have.

But it’s still a job. And something about it being a job makes it so undesirable to me. Yet as I scroll through the messages on my phone, I see that my business partner is very serious about getting these surveys done as soon as possible.

He’s been working hard, and I shouldn’t disappoint him, but this lack of motivation has been plaguing me for the longest time.

The plague runs in my family. They don’t care to recognize it as an actual disease, but the four suicides in succession that have happened this past decade would say otherwise.

Still, they deny it. Nobody in my family would be okay with hearing their brawny boy talk about being sad nearly every moment of his life.

So, I’m chasing happiness. That’s all I want, a little bit of happiness I can hold onto. Something different. Someone different, even.

And not just anyone — but Melanie.

“Hey, is everything okay?”

Speaking of Melanie, she’s looking intently at me with a worried stare while she asks me this question.

“Ah, yeah. I fly often but I never really get used to it. I kind of get airsick,” I tell her, hoping she’ll believe me and won’t pry.

“I suppose we shouldn’t be popping champagne then, after all.”

“Maybe not, but we could pop those pants off instead,” I suggest.

Melanie laughs and bites her lower lip.

“Did you really think a line like that would work on me?”

“I sure hope so,” I say, inching closer to her and removing my sweatshirt.

She seems receptive, but I can tell that something is bothering her.

“Shane… I’m… You’re not going to leave me again, are you?”

“I promise you, I won’t.”

“I’m still… a virgin.”

I can’t deny that I’m happy to hear this.

It’s been fucking with my head that I never got to fuck her pussy!

I fingered her, I ate her out, I played with her tits, she sucked my dick, she gave me numerous hand jobs but… we never had sex.

And I really need to change that.

“Melanie, I don’t suppose you’d like to… change that with me?”

She takes a beat to think of her answer.

“Only if you promise you won’t leave me like you did before.”

Without hesitation, I respond.

“I promise.”

Immediately after those words of promise escape my lips, Melanie lunges at me and makes out with me ferociously. It’s as if the sexual frustration from every single day we were apart has culminated into an explosion of passion.

As we press our lips together, I help her remove her clothes and then she reciprocates the favor until we’re both completely naked. Melanie stops for a moment and covers up her beautiful breasts with my sweatshirt.

I always called them my “big, juicy, gorgeous tits” and I hate when I can’t see them.

“Wait, what about the pilot?” she asks me. “Can’t he see?”

“The pilot’s got to have his eyes in the sky, but if he can see, let’s give him a show.”

I rip the cover of my sweatshirt from her and sloppily kiss her neck. From there, my kisses move slowly down to the crevice between her beautiful breasts.

It doesn’t take her long to start moaning loudly. She covers her mouth with her hands, but I grab her wrists and pin them behind her back. I’m able to hold onto both of her wrists with one hand and I use the other one to gently move my fingers inside her.

God, her pussy is tight. Without a doubt, she has definitely never had anybody inside her. I wonder if she even gives herself the pleasure of playing with a dildo.

I’m starting to worry that my cock is going to destroy her. I’m Irish, for Christ’s sake- compared to her, I’m a giant. She could barely fit my cock in her mouth, how in the world is she planning on taking any inch of my dick?

It’s up to me to do a good enough job licking her so she’s wet enough to take my monster dick. Shouldn’t be a problem. She’s enjoyed me going down on her before.

Not to mention that she’s worried about having the pilot watch us, and there’s no better aphrodisiac than the danger of being caught fucking somewhere public. A private jet isn’t exactly public, but this is a good jumping off point for a virgin.

The moment my tongue touches her pussy, she explodes and soaks most of my face with her juices.

“I’m so sorry. It’s… been a long time,” she whispers.

I can’t imagine why she’d feel the need to apologize, since having her blast me with the wetness from her pussy has me rock hard for her. We’re both lucky I didn’t get one knee up and ask her for hand in marriage then and there.

“Just fuck me,” she begs. “I’m soaking wet for you, Shane, I need you right now.”

I spread her legs wider, wipe some of the moistness from my face, and aim my dick for its warm, wet, and wild destination.

It’s heaven.

Melanie

It’s heaven.

I noticed his bulge last night. How could I not, in those tight brown jeans? His cock is always ready to burst from the seams of his pants and into the nearest warm hole. But I’m glad it’s my warm hole he’s inside right now. I’ve been craving him for so long, but no amount of lonely nights could have prepared me for the intense pressure I’m feeling right now.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” he asks, probably as worried as I am.

But something has come over me. Now that I’ve finally lost my virginity, some voice lying dormant in the back of my mind answers for me, and it begs him for more.

More pain. More pressure. More pleasure. More of that monster cock he could split me in half with if he wasn’t more careful. I’ve only masturbated a few times before and they’ve never even come close to the sensations my body is going through right now.

Goosebumps have taken over my skin entirely. Sensations of hot and cold run around my head and up my spine. And that intense, passionate pressure I can’t control beating my body into submission until my tense limbs go numb. But only for a moment.

Shane leans and drives his dick as far in me as it’ll go, and it makes me scream. I can’t control my body. The noises I’m making, the things I’m doing with my arms, none of it makes sense, but I’m in such utter bliss I find it hard to care. It’s like having an out of body experience while also feeling every tiny atom of my being.

“Harder,” the voice in the back of my head screams. “Fuck me harder.”

“What?” he asks.

“Fuck me harder,” I yell at the top of my lungs.

He laughs and salutes me before fucking me with all of his power. I could see every muscle on his body bounce as his body slams against mine. The sound of our vessels slapping against one another is like music unheard by man, music from heaven.

That’s what this is. Heaven.

I push him down on his back and start riding his cock. The change of position hurts at first, but I endure the pain and reach the pleasure. Arching my back, I raise my knees and ride his cock masterfully. And I know I’m doing it with some semblance of skill since I see Shane’s eyes roll to the back of his head and feel his dick twitch inside of me.

“Jesus H. Cricket, Melanie, were you really a virgin?!” he exclaims.

“Not anymore,” I say out of breath, riding his dick faster and faster, as I feel my climax nearing.

His hands tense around my thighs and move up grabbing me tighter and tighter. He grasps my legs, my hips, then my shoulders, until he’s pressed right up against me, and we’re both somehow on the verge of climaxing.

It hits me first. The wave of pleasure, riding from my loins up to my head and right back down, like an erupting volcano. I tense my muscles around his cock and let out a much needed breath of air.

Just as my climax finishes, Shane starts pumping into me harder than before, harder than when I begged for his force. He starts screaming “fuck” repeatedly and in quicker succession. I’ve watched enough porn to know what’s going to happen. Right as he pushes deep into me, I slide him out of me and feel the splash of hot semen land on my chest and stomach.

“Sorry, but… you weren’t wearing a condom and — ”

“No, no, I understand,” he’s able to say with his severe cottonmouth, “that was still… amazing. Fucking incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” I tell him.

It’s true. Someone has to be incredible to get my guard down enough to get me to bang them after hurting me so deeply.

The post-coital bliss is starting to wear off and I’m still smiling. I thought I’d be ashamed at myself for sleeping with someone who amounts to a total stranger, but I couldn’t be happier. I should have done this ages ago. Perhaps even last year, when we did everything but.

This is good. I’m doing something most people I know can’t ever say they’ve done. I’m flying to Ireland with a stranger who fucks like a porn star and wants to treat me to a vacation.

Even Denise can’t say she has it this good right now. I may even start posting on Instagram just to rub it into her face and show her what happens when she breaks our supposedly sacred pact.

For once, her lavish lifestyle will seem like nothing compared to how I’m living. Even if it’s just for a moment, she’ll be the jealous one, for once.

The end… for now. More of this story is CUMMING soon! Follow me on Medium and subscribe to email notifications so you know when I publish another new sizzling hot story.

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