The Mile High Club is going to be my doom.
The flight attendant is braced against the service cart and she is leering at me. “Federal Aviation Administration regulations mandate a lavatory occupancy of one. I’m going to have to report this incident to the captain.”
I want to slap that smirk off her face, but that would require standing vertical, not laying horizontal with my accomplice half-naked on top of me.
Besides, aggravating her now won’t do me any good. If she turns me in, I could be flight violations or even public indecency.
Slowly, the weight on top of me is gone. The man I was just about to have sex with is rising to all of his six plus feet.
Oh, God, his pants. His pants. They’re undone and without that belt buckled they’re certain to fall down.
I don’t pray often, but please God, give me a break here.
NO PANTS REQUIRED
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