Between a Cock and a Hard Place

We were going airborne.

For me and Ava, this was a new chapter of our sexual journey. Like many weary middle-aged couples, we were looking for a new way to spice up our sex lives. We'd tried everything-- light bondage, spanking, and an incident with a backyard trampoline and several bottles of olive oil that we don't talk about anymore.

As you would expect, things weren't going well so far. Ava had her needs, and so did I. Even as she reached her fortieth birthday, Ava was a wiry woman with straight, silky black hair-- Joan Baez style-- beautiful blue eyes like gemstones, and the obligatory double D-cup description you'll find in every bad smut story. Fortunately, hers were real, and I had spent many a night enjoying myself in the company of those two friends of mine, who loved a good squeeze.

I'd also tell you what her height was in feet and inches and her weight, but Ava can get self-conscious about that, and I don't want to make her upset. She's one of those people who stand in front of a mirror wearing a pair of stunning pleated trousers which accentuated her curves nicely, and would invariably ask me something like "Does this make me look fat?" and expect me to give her a straight answer.

Thankfully, I never had to lie. Ava had a figure like a Greek goddess, and she often got looks from other men when we went outside, which was both a constant source of indirect flattery and irritation from me, who felt like a celebrity each time I went shopping with her at Giant Eagle. It was only when people began to whistle at her that I genuinely became annoyed, but that was a rare occurrence when you lived in suburban Nevada.

So Ava and I were in a hurry to figure something out, because even our next-door neighbors, Adam and Sarah Jones, who we had over for dinner every two weeks, were starting to give us these polite, pitying looks that are almost exclusively reserved for middle-aged couples going through an unhappy dry spell and the terminally ill. They were nice enough not to say it out loud, but the last time we had them over for dinner, Sarah took Ava by the wrist and led her into the kitchen for a one-on-one conference on male and female pleasure while Adam and I discussed football and politics in the living room over a couple of beers.

"Where do you see yourself in five years?" Sarah asked her, as if she were giving a job interview to a potential employee.

Ava seemed momentarily startled. "What do you mean?"

Sarah was a yoga instructor at the local fitness center, which meant that, in addition to having the lithe, lean figure of a gymnast, she also knew more positions in the bedroom than any other person in town and was therefore the more sexually experienced of the two. She laughed with an open-hearted charity and placed a sisterly hand on Ava's arm. "Does he ever go down on you?" she said, getting straight to the point.

Ava's face turned beet red. "Well, no, but--"

Sarah took both of Ava's hands in her own and looked her straight in the eye. "Listen, Ava. I make a living teaching women the things they can do with their bodies. Every time I see a young college girl walk into that door, I think to myself, that's one brave woman. No matter what they say, I know what they're really there for: to please their men.

"What makes you think everything will magically be better if you don't do something? You'll just be five years older and just as miserable as you are now."

"I'm not miserable," Ava said, with a naïve arrogance that made Sarah cackle with joy. "So he's never went down on you, not even once, and you think you're not miserable."

"We do a lot of other things," Ava said, desperately trying to regain her foothold in the conversation. Even as she said it, she knew it sounded sad, almost pathetic.

"You have to make a leap of faith, Ava," Sarah said. "Try something new. He'll thank you for it."

Meanwhile, me and Adam were in the living room, both of us distracted by the two hot women in the kitchen trading secrets and gossip as if they had just met. Adam fixed Sarah with a studious, sidelong stare. "You should see her in bed," he said, with a trace of pride in his voice. "It's like playing Twister, only way hotter."

"I can imagine," I said, trying to conjure up an image of Sarah and Adam enmeshed in a human pretzel. I closed my eyes and pushed the thought out of my mind, simultaneously aroused and thoroughly disturbed, but Adam didn't notice me.

"She does this thing with her tongue, you know, that drives me crazy," he said, lost in his own private recollection. "I was hesitant about anal at first, but she talked me into it one night, and it was the best decision I ever made."

I had to do a double take. "Anal?" I said, bewildered. "I thought you were talking about oral sex."

Adam laughed. "That's what I thought, too. But after Sarah showed me what a rimjob was, it was like discovering a whole new galaxy of pleasure." He shook his head, grinning, and took a sip of his beer. "Man."

Sarah and Ava walked into the living room, their faces flushed, their heads tilted back in laughter. When Ava saw me, her blue eyes fixed on me with an unsettling openness, and I knew that things in the bedroom would never be the same again.

"Well!" Adam said, clapping his hands together once. "Who's up for some TV football? You know what team I'm rooting for. The Las Vegas Raiders are making a comeback tonight, just you wait."

The conversation between me and Adam and Sarah and Ava ultimately proved to be the final impetus in a change for the better. That very night, after we said our goodbyes to the Jones's and shut the front door, Ava took my shoulders and pinned me down, my back against the door.

"You. Me. The bedroom," she said. "Now."

I followed her upstairs two steps at a time. By then both of us were tipsy, our faces red with animal heat, and her spontaneity just seemed like the natural next step in our drunken night. Ava emerged from the walk-in closet, wearing a pair of black, thigh-high leather boots with stiletto heels and nothing else. That was the first time I ever screamed in bed, and for one brief moment of agonizing bliss, I was the happiest man alive.

Thus started our month-long journey on sexual experimentation. We tried everything, introducing something new into the bedroom each night. One night we did something with an entire roll of duct tape and a handful of egg vibrators. Another time, Ava brought in a leather gimp suit, several boxes of Roman candles, and a German Wehrmacht uniform that one of our senior veteran neighbors let us borrow as part of a WWI-style prisoner fantasy. We were innovators in the finest sense of the word-- people at the edge of nationwide sexual knowledge, constantly experimenting, trying new things, going where no man (or woman) had ever gone before, and each night we pushed that boundary just a little farther, sexual pioneers.

It soon came to pass that we became bored with what little freedom we had in the cushioned confines of our bedroom. You could only go so far in the bedroom, and even with our toys-- the duct tape, egg vibrators, gimp suits, Roman candles, antique military uniforms, and so much more-- things just didn't seem to be as vibrant or as exciting as before. One day, however, as I was reading the newspaper at our breakfast table, I saw an ad for skydiving lessons at the Skydive Las Vegas skydiving school.

Making an intuitive leap, I called the number listed below and signed me and my wife up for a few lessons. She was getting bored too, and this was just what we needed. Our first day came, and we drove into the metropolis of Las Vegas to get our first taste of what jumping out of airplanes was all about. Our instructor, a thirty-something Chinese man with the ruddy, boyish face of an adrenaline junkie and the terminally relaxed attitude of a California surfer greeted us with a smile.

His name was Yang Ming. Unlike most smut stories, who generally portray Asians with stereotypically racist characters that are defined solely by their exotic sexuality and are almost exclusively female, making for fragile sexual objects like china vases, Yang Ming was actually his name. He was pretty cool, too. We still hang out together sometimes. Also, he spoke perfect, textbook English without a trace of an accent, if you were wondering if what he sounded like.

So Yang Ming taught us everything he knew about skydiving and parachutes over the course of two months. By the end of July, me and Ava were ready. The night before our big day, I found it impossible to concentrate in bed, and I told her I needed to save my energy for tomorrow. She agreed without argument, turning around in bed to sleep.

As an added note: while most married couples deal with a snoring husband who sounds like a creature from the Lord of the Rings trilogy, it was the other way around for us. Ava sounded like a dragon, her nasal utterances ripping through the air with a life of its own. While she snored, I tossed and turned, wide awake, my racing thoughts holding a frantic conversation with her "Ummm-aaahhhh"s and her "Huuuurrrrrrrrr"s. From such a beautiful woman, you'd be surprised at how inelegant her snoring sounds.

I was scared. I'd never jumped out of an airplane before. Just the thought of standing on the edge of space, watching the city of Las Vegas and the Nevada desert scroll past me like a distant dream, the cold air of the sky, made me break out in nervous sweat. My palms became damp, and finally I couldn't take it anymore. I threw off the covers and went down into the kitchen, where I made myself a cup of coffee and nursed it in the early hours of the morning before the sun had risen.

I didn't get any sleep. I was peaked. Exhausted. But I felt good, like I could run an entire marathon without breaking a sweat, and I knew that it was going to be a good day. I was really going skydiving.

Me and Ava were going to have sex in the sky.

We arrived at the desert runway a little before noon. Yang Ming greeted us beside the airplane, wearing a silver flight suit and aviator sunglasses that made him look like a Top Gun extra. "You two ready to jump out of an airplane?"

Ava smiled. "I'm more than ready. I was born for this."

I looked at Ava, astonished. During parachute school, Ava seemed to undergo a transformation from a horny housewife to a badass with a take-no-prisoners attitude with life. I echoed her sentiment. Yang Ming grinned and clapped his hands together once. "Then let's get this show on the road."

The Cessna 182 rose into the sky at a steep, linear incline. I almost threw up as we took off. The thing with riding in small airplanes is that the turbulence becomes much more apparent than in a commercial flight, and I was never more aware of being trapped in a roaring metal box thousands of feet in the sky than I was now. Ava was scared, too, but she flashed me a feverish smile to show me how brave she could be. I gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and smiled back.

The moment of truth came at 15,000 feet. From the porthole windows of the airplane, you could actually see white, misty tufts of clouds flitting past, and in less than a minute we had risen above the cloudbank, surrounded by nothing but the vast, empty expanse of blue sky. This was it. We were really going to jump.

Yang Ming came staggering down the aluminum walkway, strapped in and ready to go. After he tightened the straps on our parachutes and buckled us down, he slid the door open.

Icy air rushed into the airplane like a breath of winter. A rhombus of bright, unfiltered sunlight lit up the tiny steel cavern of our airplane, making me squint. You could hear the thrumming blast of wind and the churning roar of the engine, and Yang Ming had to shout to make himself heard. "Stick with me and you two will be just fine," he said, his voice muted by the roar of the engine. "We ready? One-- two-- three--!"

The moment I left the airplane I knew I made the biggest mistake of my life. First there was a suicidal courage. Then there was a breathless gasp. Then there was the jump.

And then there was only silence.

Falling from a high altitude, once you get used to it, is a lot like jumping on flat ground. Everyone has done it. As you begin your brief descent back towards Earth, there's this brief breathless moment of anticipation before your feet touch the ground again, your entire body bracing for impact. With skydiving, however, the ground just continually gives way from under you, over and over again, so that that moment of anticipation is stretched into several long minutes of heart-gripping terror.

So I began falling, really falling, for the first time in my life. It felt like I was trapped inside an elevator headed straight down with no stops in between, and I could feel my heart pounding violently in my ears like jungle drums, furious and relentless. I was wearing goggles to protect my eyes from the wind, but at terminal velocity it pulled my cheeks back into a ridiculous parody of a full-toothed smile. From afar, I could see the black star shape of Ava, my wife, hurtling into the cloudbank at hundreds of miles per hour. Calculating for wind speed and my physical trajectory, I folded my arms against my sides and dove, headfirst, into the clouds.

Ava was ready, but so was I. As I approached her dim silhouette in the misty cloudbank, I took the time to unbuckle my belt and take out my prodigious member, the icy wind hitting my balls, my dick slapping against my stomach, I realized I had a rock-hard erection. I had never been so aroused before in my life, and I knew that part of it was the adrenaline talking.

I've heard stories that some men-- soldiers in combat, as well as men who enjoy being choked by their women, have had absolutely mind-blowing orgasms, thanks to the intense, near-death experience that bullets flying over your head or hands gripped around your throat can offer in such a vulnerable moment. In my case, it was skydiving, with nothing between my cock and the solid ground but 20,000 feet of open space.

My erection throbbed, jutting out against the wind like the sword of truth. As I flew towards Ava, I noticed, to my delight, that she had already taken her pants off.

We crashed against each other at just the right angle for penetration, my dick slipping straight into the folds of her wet pussy in midair, causing a lightning bolt of pleasure to rise into my heart and brain like a shot of Irish whiskey. We bounced off each other, Ava cartwheeling away, but I could hear her laughing with joy. This was really happening! We would be the first couple in human history to ever have sex in free-fall at terminal velocity, and even those rich dudes in their private jets, expensive champagne and thousand dollars an hour call girls could hold a candle to us. We were the real Mile High Club.

We dropped through the cloudbank, wisps of white vapor trailing around our bodies like tufts of cotton. This time, Ava was the one who initiated the next moment of contact. She flew towards me at an astonishing speed, diving towards me like a peregrine falcon locked in on its prey, fueled by killer instinct and the single-minded intention to blow my fucking mind.

I pivoted my hips just as we crashed against each other again. I felt the smooth sensation of pleasure on my dick as I slipped into her once again, but this time, as she pulled away from me, she climbed on top of me, turning upside down, and lowered her mouth onto my cock in the classical 69 position. With her tongue placed firmly against the sensitive part of my head, she dug in deep, prying away the foreskin and tickling the part of it that I could never reach with my own hand masturbating. I moaned with pleasure. My cock stiffened; I gasped. But before I could come, Ava pulled away from me again, gave me a saucy grin, and pushed off into the sky. I gave an agonized groan of dismay, but she was already gone.

I was close. So close. And Ava knew just how to press my buttons the right way, because even as I hurtled through the sky at terminal velocity, all I could think about was the sexy way she had used her mouth, the wet roughness of her tongue, probing for weakness. I wanted her so bad I cried out for her, but my voice was lost in the roar of the wind. I dove into another layer of clouds, searching in vain for my wife, for the elusive orgasm which she had so cruelly denied me in a moment of sadistic pleasure.

But then I saw it-- the light at the end of the tunnel. Because Ava hadn't left me. Like an ocean receding from shore in the wake of a tsunami, Ava had temporarily escaped me to build up more speed for our final bodily impact. The sight of her was awe-inspiring, the shape of her shadow diving towards me at in inhuman speed, like Wonder Woman, and I watched in amazement as she closed the distance between us with the speed of a heat-seeking missile. "AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" I screamed, out of pure, unfiltered anticipation for my mind-blowing orgasm.

We connected. Like an electric socket whose circuit has been completed, like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle clicking into place, I felt the entirety of the universe, in all its glory and wonder, all its pain and suffering, all its beauty and majesty, come together into a single point of mindless bliss as Ava did a Kegel on my dick at the very last moment.

I didn't come. I exploded.

The President of the United States, future Olympians, Nobel Prize winners, the person who would find the cure for cancer, and billions of other tiny versions of me went spurting into space, lost to the world. But I didn't care. I was in heaven, floating in a cold blue sea of bliss, with the woman I loved most right next to me. I heard her moaning, too, this beautiful feminine high-pitched noise of sexual joy, and I knew that I would be happy to die right here, in this moment. Then, to my surprise, I realized that the possibility was rapidly approaching us.

I gave a tug on my parachute release. Nothing happened. I tugged again, and this time the parachute ballooned out halfway and suddenly became entangled in a spiderweb of nylon cords and safety ropes. Even as I basked in the sleepy pleasure of postcoital bliss, I was still conscious enough to feel alarmed for my own safety, as well as Ava's. I had to act now. With a reserve of strength I didn't know I had in me, I ripped off the primary parachute and cast it away.

I gripped the latch on my backup parachute and yanked as hard as I could. The parachute shot out, and I thought-- for one terrible moment-- that I was a goner. But then I felt a powerful force lifting me away from the ground, and I knew that everything was going to be okay.

"Wooooo!" I screamed.

Me and Ava landed in a somersault, the blanket of nylon material settling on top of us as we pawed at each other making love. The nylon cords bound us together in an inconceivably kinky improvisation, and it was only when I peeked out from under the parachute that I saw Yang Ming land on the ground a few hundred feet away, the parachute dragging on the hardpan desert behind him.

"Don't worry about him," Ava giggled, guiding my face back to her with one hand and my cock with the other.

A few minutes later Yang Ming came jogging over. He bent down and lifted the canopy with one hand and peered inside, catching us right in the middle of an intense sexual moment, Ava riding on top of me in a reverse cowgirl position.

"Oh, shit," Yang Ming said, covering his eyes with one hand. "Sorry."

He was about to leave when Ava took his hand. She waggled her eyebrows at him suggestively. "You can join if you like. Me and my husband were looking for a threesome."

She looked to me for approval. We just had sex at terminal velocity in space, so I figured adding another person into the mix was the least I could do now. What the hell, I thought, and shrugged.