Chapter One: Cabin Pressure
EVER SINCE I WAS A KID, I’ve always wanted to fly.
At first, I thought that meant becoming a pilot. But after seeing all the training, the hours, the work it takes—I decided to pivot. What’s the next best thing? Flight attendant.
I’ve worked for smaller airlines, some of the giants, some regional fleets—and this midsize outfit, Pacific Air, the kind of airline that flies just under the radar but somehow everywhere at once, seemed like the perfect fit. But it wasn’t just the flying. It was seeing all these incredible places, all in the name of a day’s work.
But that wasn’t the only thing appealing about this airline.
It was the pilots.
And if one thing could turn me on, it was watching a pilot step onto the plane. You’d be surprised how many “happily married, four kids, white picket fence” types were willing to use me like their personal sex toy—doing things they’d never admit to anywhere else—and I let them.
Was I breaking up happy homes—not unless they went home and told their wives they fucked a flight attendant in the airport lounge restroom on a layover at Heathrow.
Or that they’d wait until the last passenger stepped off the plane before bending me over the table in the galley.
Or that they’d send the first officer to “check on things” just long enough for a blow job in the jump seat of the cockpit.
In fact, I think I know why they call it the cockpit—because I’ve clocked more time in a cockpit than most flight attendants ever would.
And the thing was—I loved every minute of it.
####
Lena and I boarded the 747-8 at the same time. As lead flight attendant, I was assigned to the upper deck business cabin, but since this leg had no passengers up there, I’d be covering main deck first and business instead, while Lena and the other four worked economy and main cabin.
Once we got to LAX, things would shift. On day two, Lena would rotate into main deck first and business, assisting up top as needed, and eight additional flight attendants would board—bringing us to a full crew of fourteen for the long-haul to Hawaii.
“So you’re excited about a day at the beach?”
“You know it!” I said.
Lena was referring to the layover in Los Angeles. Most trips were turns—out and back—but this one was a proper overnight. We’d spend the night in L.A., have the entire day to do as we pleased, and then report at 6:00 p.m. local for the final leg to Hawaii.
Just then the phone rang, it was the gate agent.
“Pryce.”
“Hey, the rest of your crew is headed down the jet bridge.”
“Copy,” I said as I placed the phone back on the receiver.
The last two crew members were the pilots. According to the manifest, Captain John Baylor and First Officer Scott McKinney.
Baylor—was old school. He was the kind of pilot that invited little kids to look inside the flight deck and handed out little souvenir wings—McKinney, I wasn’t familiar with him, not yet anyways.
I picked up the handset again, thumb resting on the intercom switch for half a beat longer than necessary, then pressed.
“Pilots incoming,” I said, my voice carrying back through the cabin over that familiar, grainy phone hum.
It wasn’t an announcement.
Just a heads-up.
The kind that told the rest of the crew to pay attention. A few moments later, they were boarding.
You can always tell the pilots before you see them—the shift in posture from the passengers still filtering on, the subtle clearing of space in the aisle, the way people glance twice without knowing why.
McKinney came first.
Younger than I expected. Clean shaven with a hint of aftershave. He didn’t look at me right away—just a quick scan of the cabin, like he was performing mental checks in his head. Then his eyes passed over me, not lingering, not dismissive. Just… noted. He gave the smallest nod and kept moving.
And then Baylor. He and I had a little history.
Older, relaxed, that easy confidence that came from years of doing the job without needing to prove it anymore. He gave me that familiar smile—the one that said we both already knew how this flight was going to go.
As McKinney turned and disappeared up the narrow staircase to the flight deck on the upper level, Baylor slowed just enough to fall out of step with the boarding flow. Close enough that only I would hear him.
“Don’t know if I’m gonna make it to the lounge like this,” he said.
I didn’t respond right away.
Just looked down.
He was dragging his flight bag behind him, jacket slung casually over one arm like it didn’t matter. But it did. He shifted it—just slightly, just enough—and there it was.
Way more obvious than I had expected.
His erection pressing hard against the clean line of his uniform pants like it didn’t belong there and absolutely did.
My mouth curved before I could stop it
Oh captain, my captain.
That familiar spark ran through me—sharp, electric, settling low in my chest like it had nowhere else to go.
Baylor didn’t wait for a response. He just gave me a quick look—something between a challenge and a promise—and followed McKinney up the stairs like nothing had happened; but it most certainly happened.
####
As the last of the passengers boarded, I did a final sweep of the cabin—overhead bins latched, aisles clear.
“Cabin secure?” Lena called from mid-cabin.
“Secure,” I answered, eyes still moving.
“Cross-check?”
“Cross-check complete.”
On airplanes, nothing gets trusted the first time. You set it, someone else checks it. You miss something, people get hurt. Simple as that.
I pulled the door closed. The seal caught with a heavy, familiar thud. I set the girt bar into place, checked the indicator, and armed the slide.
One more glance to confirm, then I lifted the handset.
“Forward entry door armed—cross-check complete.”
As the safety video played, Lena, the two other flight attendants and myself performed a visual demonstration, indicating how to fasten and tighten the seatbelt, where to find floatation devices, where oxygen masks would deploy and how to locate the nearest exit.
With the video and demonstration complete, the intercom came to life with Baylor’s voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for choosing Pacific Air. We appreciate your business. We’re next in line and expect an on time departure. Flight time to LAX is approximately five hours and twenty minutes. I’ll update you on conditions as we prepare for landing. In the meantime, we hope you enjoy your flight. Flight attendants, prepare for departure.”
That meant at least for the next twenty minutes I would get to sit down. I dimmed the cabin lights, buckled myself into the forward jump seat and fired off a quick text to Lena.
Pryce: I am so getting some before we even land.
Torres: The first officer?
P: The pilot!
T: You’re kidding me?!
P: Dude was bricked up getting on the plane
T: How do they explain that to the first officer?
P: Idk, maybe they tell them they need to call home and want privacy.
T: Don’t they ever see you come out?
P: Yeah but they don’t see me go in so they don’t know how long I’ve been in there.
T: Ugh, gotta go, 47G is looking at me like I’m breaking the law.
P: Should’ve closed the curtain, ttyl.
I slid my phone back into my vest pocket and waited until we leveled off—seatbelt sign off, cabin settled, the quiet hum that meant we were out of sterile cockpit and into cruise. Right on cue, McKinney came down from the upper deck.
“Everything okay? Need anything?” I asked, already unbuckling from the jumpseat.
“No—captain’s making a call home,” he said, easy, like it was routine. “I’m just stretching my legs. Grab a snack.”
He slipped past the curtain without another look. I gave it a beat—just long enough to be normal—then reached for the phone and keyed the flight deck.
He picked up immediately.
“Well?”
I didn’t answer out loud. I didn’t have to.
I set the handset back in its cradle, grabbed a carafe and crossed to the stairs. No sooner had I reached the flight deck, the latch clicked and the door cracked open from inside.
I slipped through and pulled it closed behind me, quiet and practiced, the cabin noise cutting off as the seal took. He was already loosening his belt, movements unhurried, like this was just another part of the flight.
He sat in the rear jump seat as I knelt in front of him helping to pull his pants down to his ankles. The briefs were holding on for dear life, and the spot of precum only made me harder.
As soon as his cock sprang free, my mouth was all over it. Sloppy at first and then more controlled. His cock was thick and veiny with just the right amount of bush, a soft cushion and my face brushed against it on the down stroke.
“Fuck!” he groaned, trying not to be too loud, but clearly not caring. We were on the upper deck and there was no one else up here.
“You like daddy’s dick don’t you, you little faggot!”
Yes—this was Captain John Baylor. Well-kept. Twenty-five-year veteran. Former Air Force pilot.
His wife, Arlene, was back home in Rock Hill, South Carolina, with their Labradoodle, Roxy. Their two kids—John Jr., fresh off his freshman year at UNC Charlotte, and Amanda, just finishing her junior year at Winthrop—were both home for the summer. Arlene was counting down the last stretch of a thirty-two-year career in the South Carolina public school system, inching toward retirement.
Every Sunday, they attended mass at Our Lady of the Valley Catholic Church. Afterward, it was lunch at the Pasadena Buffet with Arlene’s parents, Paul and Ruth—two of the spriest septuagenarians south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
“Yes sir!” I said coming up briefly for a swig of oxygen before going back to business on that cock. It was a nice cock.
The captain was 6’2”, built—solid muscle—with the stamina of a man twenty years younger.
“Take off your pants!” he said, pulling me up and rising to his feet.
I hurried and unbuckled my belt and unfastened my pants, before I could get them off, he was spinning around. I braced my hands against the door. I heard him spit then felt two fingers at my hole. He wasn’t wasting any time.
He lifted my leg up onto a ledge, closed the space between us and pressed his cock against my hole.
“Shit,” I said under my breath. My cock was aching but before I could do anything about it, he was already inside. I felt my hole gape open, “Fuck!”
I bit back the sound as his cock slid inside in one smooth motion.
“Tell me how you like it?”
He set a pace that built instead of rushed—each thrust landing with intention, deeper, sharper, like he was adjusting it to my body. I felt my grip tighten against the door, my forehead nearly resting against the metal as the pressure started to climb.
“Just—like—that,” I managed, breath catching between each thrust.
The difference was in the control. Guys my age chased the moment—fast, sloppy, trying to get there. Baylor didn’t. He worked toward it. Measured. Precise. Every movement was intentional, like he knew exactly how long he could keep me right on the edge without tipping over. I’d forgotten how good he was at this.
Damn, I loved older men.
“Fuck, you feel so fucking good!”
“Shit—you too!” I shot back, voice tighter now, body already giving in.
“Call me Captain,” he said—low, commanding, like it wasn’t a suggestion.
“You too, Captain,” I corrected, barely holding onto the words as his hand tightened at my hip, anchoring me in place.
“Good—now take this dick.”
I could feel—and hear—the slap of his balls against my taint as he drove into me, each thrust landing harder than the last.
“Give it to me—yeah, keep going,” I managed between breaths.
A tremor ran through the leg I had propped up, and it dropped to the floor. Baylor’s thrusts adjusted—shallower now, more manageable with his size. It wasn’t length so much as girth.
“C’mon,” he said, voice low, controlled. “Get that leg back up there. Be a good boy—let me get in there.”
It wasn’t quite a request. More like a quiet command.
“Yes, sir,” I said, starting to lift my leg again.
He slapped me across the ass—the crack sharp, echoing in the tight space. I let out a small, surprised whimper at the sudden impact.
“Yes what?” he asked.
I was being pounded so hard I could barely think straight.
“Yes—Captain,” I corrected.
I propped my leg back on the ledge, but he lifted it higher, opening me up even more. Every muscle from my lower back down to my foot burned, stretched tight under the strain—but it was nothing compared to the steady, relentless beating my hole was taking.
He tightened his grip on my hip, pulling me into his pelvis as he drove his hips forward.
“Holy shit, you’re so deep,” I said, the stretch lessening as he slid in and out of my ass.
“That’s how the Captain likes it!” he said, driving into me harder, "how does Captain's little slut like that?"
Between the dirty talk, the offbeat ass slaps, and the steady thunk of his balls against my ass and taint, I was harder than I’d been in a long time. As much as I wanted to reach down and grab my own aching cock, I needed both hands just to brace myself.
“Oh—fuck,” was all I was able to manage.
My mind was everywhere—lost between pleasure and pain, between staying quiet and losing control, and, for a split second, wondering if someone was ever going to listen to the flight data recorder. It’s meant to capture radio transmissions, not this—but I’ve always had that thought in the back of my head.
Like… does someone ever go back and listen? Randomly audit recordings just to make sure pilots are doing what they’re supposed to? I could barely keep a straight thought, it felt like I was being split in half.
“Oh yeah—that’s it,” he grunted.
It was somewhere between primal and controlled, almost animal; beast like even, and it hit me harder than I expected. My cock was already leaking, and when I glanced down, I caught a long strand of precum stretching from the tip—slow, obscene, pulling like it didn’t want to let go.
It made my breath hitch just seeing it.
His rhythm shifted—shorter, harder strokes, each one hitting deeper than the last. I felt it in my chest, in my stomach, in the way my legs started to tremble just trying to keep up with him.
He grunted—once, twice—his grip tightening, breath rougher now. I could feel the change in him, that subtle tightening that meant he was close.
“Fuck—I’m gonna cum!”
I pushed back into him without thinking, meeting him, matching that last burst of intensity like it was instinct.
One thing about me—I have excellent bottom hygiene. So excellent that at that exact moment, I pulled off, turned around, dropped my knees and swallowed his load without missing a beat.
“Holy fuck!” I don’t think he realized he even said it, it was so in the moment.
He grabbed my head—almost instinctively—and pulled me deeper onto his dick. I could feel each spurt hit the back of my throat, warm and immediate. I moaned around him, a low hum vibrating through my chest.
My hands pressed into his ass, fingers digging in as I braced myself and took everything he gave me.
He held me there as I swallowed every drop of cum, not letting me pull away, keeping me right where he wanted me.
“You want the Captain’s load?!” he growled, voice rough, edged with something darker as another wave followed.
I took it like a champ—no gag reflex—swallowing again as he kept me there. I grabbed two fistfuls of his ass, still sucking, still draining, my tongue pressed flat along the underside of his thick shaft.
“Good boy—yeah… that’s a good boy.”
Nice load. Nice ass. He was in such great shape for a guy his age and I loved it.
What more could a guy ask for?
When I pulled off, his cock bounced lightly against my lips—wet, slick, dripping a mix of saliva and cum. His balls were drawn tight, fully spent, letting me know I’d taken all of his load. I wanted to take him back into my mouth, keep going, but time was a factor—and we both knew it.
We both got dressed, I grabbed the carafe I brought in with me and checked to make sure I was nice and tucked in.
“That was nice, thanks,” he said as he took his seat back at the helm.
“Right back atcha Captain,” I said, turning and grabbing the door with my free hand.
As I walked out, McKinney was coming up the stairs. The timing couldn’t be more perfect.
“Coffee?” I asked, trying to pretend I was doing a coffee run.
“Maybe later,” he said, smiling.
He stood there a moment, just looking at me.
“But when I do,” he said, reaching down and grabbing his crotch, “I’m gonna need a little more than coffee.”
Then he disappeared inside the cockpit.
Holy fuck—and to think, we still had four solid hours of flight time.
Downstairs, I grabbed my bag from beneath the galley top and pulled out a small bottle of mouthwash. Took a swig, then slipped into the lavatory. I still looked put together, but my insides definitely felt like they’d been rearranged. The captain had some good dick, and I wanted more of it. And now McKinney. I got hard just thinking about it—and then I realized I hadn’t had a chance to cum.
I wanted so badly to jerk off right then and there, but I didn’t know what McKinney had in store. For some reason, the thought of getting fucked by him was enough to hold me back.
I pulled my phone from my vest pocket and shot off a text to Lena.
P: Bitch.
Her response came just a few moments later.
T: Bitch!
P: Bitch!
T: Tell me everything!
P: Cap’s got the good stuff!
T: Jealous!
T: McKinney was just down here. Pretty sure he bats for both teams.
P: Bitch!
T: No way!
P: Not yet—maybe over Tulsa.
T: Ugh, they fuck you but fucking me is crossing the line lol
P: They don’t see it as cheating, it’s just a little bro time.
T: Bro time my ass, I need to get laid.
P: You need a wing man?
T: Ugh, it’s 47G again, if he asks for another pack of Biscotti I’m gonna Biscotti all over him.
P: Maybe he wants your Biscotti.
T: Not in this lifetime
P: What if they said he was the last man on earth.
Her response came within seconds of me hitting send.
T: Then I’d demand a recount!
I picked up the phone, keyed the intercom, and made the announcement—informing the passengers we’d be beginning inflight service and asking them to keep the aisles clear.
With the plane half empty, service moved quickly. I worked through first and business, then stepped back to help in the main cabin, filling in where needed before making my way back to the forward jump seat across from the staircase.
The next hour was mostly me killing time—scrolling on my phone, texting Lena, letting the rhythm of the flight settle into that quiet mid-cruise lull. At some point, I must’ve nodded off, because a small patch of turbulence was all it took to snap me back awake.
Lena came up not long after, restocking one of the carts—more excuse than necessity, a quick break from the passenger from hell that was 47G. She leaned in just long enough to vent under her breath before heading back down.
Apparently, he’d moved on from pressing the call button every five minutes to complaining about the smell coming from the lavatory.
Well, sir—next time, don’t book the seat right next to the shitter.
When the intercom came to life, Baylor’s voice came through—steady, measured, exactly how a captain’s supposed to sound.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’re currently passing over Tulsa, about halfway to our destination. We’re expecting a little turbulence up ahead, so I’m turning on the fasten seatbelt sign. Once we’re through it, I’ll turn it back off. Thank you again for choosing Pacific Air—we hope you’re enjoying your flight.”
Clean. Controlled. Professional.
Yeah… that did not sound like the man who, a couple of hours ago, was railing my ass against the cockpit door. Regardless, most of the passengers were asleep—they wouldn’t mind.
Just then, the phone rang. At first, I expected Lena’s voice—but it was McKinney.
“Neil?”
“Sir?”
“I believe the passenger in 84A needs a mini bottle of your finest red wine,” he said, his voice low and sexy as hell.
“I think we’ve got a ’72 Merlot,” I joked.
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” he replied. There was a gruff edge to his tone, something old-school about it—like he belonged in a John Wayne movie.
I grabbed two of the mini bottles—no reason to make the trip twice—and made my way up the stairs.
84A was one 32 lie-flat seats on the upper deck that converted into beds. When I got to the seat, McKinney was lying there, naked, covered only at the waist by a thin blanket.
"Wow," I said, more instinct than anything else.
"You wanna unwrap your present," he said, the gruff already getting me hard.
"Why yes I do."
Eyes wide, my mouth already watering in anticipation, I bit down on my bottom lip and reached for the blanket—taking my time, like I wanted to be present for every second of what was about to happen.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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