He was beginning to wonder why he hadn’t gone home sooner. He was roused from these pleasant thoughts by the sound of a young woman’s voice. ‘Holy shit! You’re Alessandro Conti, aren’t you? I can’t believe it! Alessandro Conti! On my airplane! I can’t wait to tell everyone about seeing you—but I doubt they’ll believe me. Oh wait, here, use this.’ Alessandro looked beyond his confused looking seatmate—who had apparently moved on to an article from the Journal of the American Statistical Association—and up into the face of a young woman. She looked to be around his age, twenty-six, and was bouncing up and down on her toes while grinning down at him. She was also holding out her boarding pass in front of his seatmate’s nose. It took the wheels in Alessandro’s head a bit too long to realize that she wanted an autograph. His heart sank as he looked beyond her. The line of passengers moving through his first-class cabin had ground to a halt. Worse, about a dozen sets of eyes were. Her second climax hit her like some tidal wave, huge, crashing and washing through her body, in a way she had not experienced except through pain since the owner of that tongues conception all those years before. He moved up her body before the climax had subsided, slipping his eager tool into her with ease, like an old hand, she began to move under him unable to stop the gyrations that her body automatically began, their tempo rising like some demented orchestra, getting faster and louder with every thrust, till like the cannon in the 1812 overture, they reached the great crescendo, as his seed flooded her body, loud, ear popping, gut wrenching and oh so deep within her very core, as Napoleon was defeated yet again and they began their decent to a quieter world of love and recovery. They lay like exhausted whales, both mother and her son; his arm d****d over her body his drained tool limp against his leg, his seed oozing from her sex wetting the soft gold cover as they slipped.
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