Plane Ride to Heaven

Her fingers still tangled in his hair, she pushes him closer to her—she stares up at the ceiling, as he swirls his tongue around her clit. His hot breath falling dead on her rising wetness, she puts a finger in her mouth and sucks on it, her breathing becoming heavier and louder.

Penelope (moans): Damn it...yes! Don't stop now, baby...don't...

Encouraged, he flaps his tongue faster inside her soaked pussy, while circularly rubbing her clit with his thumb. Relishing the taste of her sweet juices flooding his mouth, he presses his head closer to her, trying to get his tongue as deep in her as physically possible.

She presses her thighs together and digs her nails in his scalp, his hair tangled around her fingers—her pussy convulses, tightening its grip around his tongue, as her legs go numb, her toes curl painfully, and a loud scream escapes her mouth, ringing loudly inside the small apartment.

Peter (pulls back just an inch, his beard dripping): Wow, that was the first time you...so quick. (he smiles and allows her to pull him up to her face)

Penelope (kisses him on the lips, her hands on his cheeks): That was so...intense; never before have I...

Peter (grins widely): You're welcome.

Penelope (in a reluctant whisper): I want you to...let's try...I...

Peter (kisses her on the lips encouragingly): What is it? Don't be shy now, Penelope.

Penelope (draws a deep breath, stares straight into his gleaming eyes): I want to try anal and it has to be with you.

Momentarily, he is taken aback; remains silent, investigatively staring into her beaming eyes.

Penelope (worried): Don't tell me you...don't...

Peter (quickly): Of course, I do; if you also do...are you sure? I mean...

Penelope (presses her lips hard on his): Yes, I am sure.

With excitement burning in her heart, she rubs her pussy slowly, while watching him disappear into the small bedroom—the place where magic ought to have happened nightly, but, had turned into the burial ground for the hopes that had arose out of the bonfire of passion.

Her lips twitch, when he walks back into the room, naked and erect; she jumps off the counter and falls into his arms, unable to stop herself from once more sucking his lips.

His throbbing shaft rubs against her soaked pussy as she holds him close; she presses her thighs together, thusly trapping him there—she grinds against his prick, smiling while she sucks on his tongue.

He puts both hands on her buttocks, squeezing hard—she jumps up with a soft giggle, when his fingers are buried deep in her skin.

Burning with lust, she escapes his embrace and moves to the couch—with a bright, inviting smile she bends over it, spreading her legs open and glaring back at him with exhilaration oozing out of her wide open eyes.

She squirms, when he lubricates her virgin ass with some Vaseline, rubbing slowly and circularly—her hands clench over the cushion, her nails digging small holes in the fabric.

At first, he simply rubs his cock over her clenching ass—then, he shoves a finger in her, overwhelmed by her tightness.

Penelope (grunts): Wow, it's...

Peter (calmly): Just try to relax. (he slowly moves his finger, when he feels her muscles relaxing) That's it.

Penelope (bites down her lips, muffling her words): God, it feels so...it's so...different, I...

He eases a second finger in; she squirms and cries out, but, he slowly thrusts his fingers in and out, feeling the sphincter bloom.

She gasps, when he pulls his fingers out; she writhes as soon as she feels the head of his cock pushing against her ass.

Peter (warmly, as he bends forth and kisses the back of her neck): You have to relax, don't clench; the more you relax, the easier it'll be. Just...

Penelope (nods frantically): I'm trying, I'm...

Peter (soothingly): I don't want to hurt you, Penelope, but...

Penelope: It's okay, I want it, I...need it.

He raises his eyebrow, plants a last kiss on her neck, and straightens his back.

She grunts, when the head of his cock slips in her ass—painfully opening up the first sphincter. Yet, despite the burning pain, a wave of pleasure also traversed her spine, causing her eyes to goggle.

Slowly and cautiously, he continues to push, driving his cock deeper in her, breaking the barriers the sphincters present. He puts both hands on her waist, holding her steady, while she squirms and screams.

With one final thrust, he's balls deep in her; he tightens his grip around her waist even more, trying to stop her wild squirming.

Her legs tremble wildly and uncontrollably—she feels more stuffed than ever before. A few tears roll down her eyes from the intense burning sensation arising from her bumhole, but, it quickly subsides and is replaced by an unprecedented intense pleasure.

As he moves his hips faster, she cries out in sheer joy, feeling his cock rub against her inner muscles, expanding them widely. Holding on the cushion, her nails buried in it, she cannot prevent a continuous stream of loud cries to escape her mouth.

Overwhelmed by her tightness, he desperately tries to control himself—looking up at the ceiling and forcing himself to think of anything but what is transpiring. With slow, long thrusts he pounds her, her ass now having stretched out just enough to fit him like a glove.

They both moan and groan, during a slow pounding they both wish could last forever—he quickens his pace, slamming her harder and rocking her body back and forth, her head banging against the couch's cushion.

She rests her head on the couch, bend over in a tight angle—biting the cushion hard to drown the oncoming cries brewing up in her throat. The faster he goes, the more numb her legs grow.

With a sudden, swift move he picks her legs up in the air and holds them to his waist, while he plows her even harder.

Practically in the air, holding on to the couch for balance, she feels him going deeper in her—the waves of pleasure intensify as they shoot through her spine and make her body shake wildly in mad spasms.

Her pussy convulses and her numb legs tremble uncontrollably, as she lifts herself up on her arms, crying out in the room—one long thrust all it took for his cock to throb deep inside her and the head of his shaft to expand inside her, thus stretching her out even wider.

She squirts all over the couch and his thighs—her whole body shakes from the powerful spasms overwhelming her, her cries turn into a continuous stream of low-pitched moan.

Peter (pulls out and takes the condom off; breathing heavily): My God, that was...definitely intense.

Penelope (collapses on her knees, her face resting on the couch, when he puts her legs back on the floor): I've never...thank you, for...

Peter (drops to his knees next to her, kisses her): It was great. But...

Penelope (stares into his eyes knowingly): Don't say it; not now.

Peter (nods and looks away): I know, sorry...it's just...

She puts her hand firmly on his chin and forces him to look into her eyes; without a word, she simply kisses him. Tenderly, warmly, no wild sucking and biting, only a longlasting kiss, both unable to break it.

They both sit on the couch—she rests her head on his shoulder and for a brief while they remain perfectly silent, staring into the grand void of the unknown future. Not exchanging a word, their breathing synchronized and their hearts pounding extremely hard against their ribs.

She curls up on the couch, when he gets up and collects his few books from the coffee table, taking them with him into the bedroom—it'd have to end, she reminds herself. A fist of dreadfulness and emptiness squeezes her heart almost bloodless.

Her heart sinks down to her stomach, when he reemerges from the bedroom, his sac voyage across his shoulders.

Penelope (dryly): This is it?

Peter (stares at his shoes): It'd have to happen, eventually. Better to do it now, keep what...with the final memory being so pleasant and intense. To remind us of the initial passion, of...

Penelope (shuts her eyes and wipes a tear off her cheek): Maybe, you're right, maybe...

Peter (stands under the open door): I wish it could be forever, but...we both...I...

And with that, not able to complete the sentence, at an absolutely horrifying loss for words, he steps out of the apartment and closes the door behind him.

She remains curled up on the couch, for the first time all alone, and cries herself to a dreamless sleep.

3.

From: Peter

To: Penelope

Date: 26/08/2017

Dear Penelope,

Hello.

I really don't know what to say...nor why I'm writing.

Scratch that. I know why I'm writing. It's just...

No real words to describe the turbulence in my heart; that's all.

I still remember that last day we spent together—as well as the very first day,

when we met.

Insane, how like the three months in between feel like a dream—almost no memories, just fleeting images that often wake me up at nights.

I'm in Northern Sweden now; wandering through the villages and towns, doing occasional day labor just to have enough money for gas—bought a used car for almost nothing from an old lady, whose son, who owned the car, died in a fatal car accident. It's quite liberating, having the freedom of movement, having my own car for the first time since I left the U.S.

Now...I miss you. Yeah, no reason to beat around the bush; I can't stop thinking of what we could have had, of what it might have been. And what it turned out to be...because of me, because of us and the way we handled things.

I just couldn't...I had to write. Hoping to hear from you, hoping to hear how you're doing.

And I'm not going to lie—there are answers I hope to read and others I don't particularly wish to see. Either way, hearing from you would certainly brighten up these endless grey mornings.

All the best,

Peter

* * * *

From: Penelope

To: Peter

Date: 02/09/2017

Dear Peter,

It really felt weird hearing from you. It definitely took me a few days to think about my response, and whether I ought to respond altogether.

At first, I will admit, I thought I shouldn't reply. I thought...I don't know.

But, in the end, I just couldn't stop thinking of you, of...yes, of that last day we were together. Of everything we've been through.

It's just...I also miss you—guess, it's what you mostly wanted to hear, isn't it? :)

But, it's...painful. Very painful, at times. However, I do not miss the constant smell of alcohol in the apartment, hearing the key hit the lock at 3am and listening to you stumbling your way in the dark, knocking lamps down and falling on walls, cursing your way to the bed.

I'm doing okay, though. Work's going good. I've started my MBA, too. So, I've been pretty busy—juggling work, MBA, and Danish lessons. I suppose, even if you hadn't gone away, we wouldn't have been seeing each other very often.

Best,

Penelope

* * * *

From: Peter

To: Penelope

Date: 03/09/2017

I was certainly glad to hear back from you; I just couldn't believe it, when I saw your email.

Now, I'm in Norway; crossed the borders, no one even stopped me. I love it, how free movement is between Scandinavian countries. Heading to Tromsø, don't know why. I just...like the name, I guess. Staying in a tiny village up in the mountains now, for a couple more days.

Sleeping in my car, drinking good, strong beer—certainly love Scandinavian beer! Most of it is Danish, too!

It's good hearing you're doing good and you keep busy. I'm sure you're loving it, too! I remember how you told me, one of those few nights we really talked, and I was sober enough for the words to register, that you can't stand it, when you feel static, even though you adore staying at one place!

I guess, these small contradictions of yours is one of the major reasons why I...at any rate! I understand what you meant. You like keeping busy, keeping your mind occupied. And I'm sure you're doing great at everything.

It's weird, though—there's so much I want to say, so much I want to write; but, I don't know which ones are "appropriate", how much I can divulge...I mean, after all, things weren't...I don't know.

I guess, I'm on automatic writing mood and don't know how much to keep, what to keep, how properly to explain what I feel and mean and...keep writing and erasing, the old lady behind the bar is looking weird at me.

I guess, she thinks it's bad manners sitting in a bar and using my laptop; and I agree. I always hated people, who did that. But, it's the only way. So, I'm wrapping this up, 'cause I need another beer and I fear she's about to refuse me service, if I keep annoying the other patrons with my fast typing.

Be well, and do write again—to tell me anything you want, anything that's on your mind, news, thoughts...anything.

* * * *

From: Penelope

To: Peter

Date: 06/09/2017

It's so hard, when I have to...I love receiving your emails, I love how they feel as if they allow me a small peek in your mind. Feels, sometimes, more real than it was, when you were around.

Crazy, isn't it?

Anyway, it's also really, really hard writing to you; not because I don't want to, but...because, I don't know what to say, how much to delve into what...

I mean, two nights ago, I went out with Morten again. We had dinner, he took me to the theater—an Ibsen play, in Danish(!). I could only understand half of it, but, it was really good exercise for my language skills.

He's also very helpful with that, too. Talks to me in Danish, forcing me to speak Danish with him—I feel I'm learning much better now that he helps me, than I did when all my practice came from the classroom.

Anyway...I was debating myself whether I should include the above; still am! I mean, there's nothing sexual or anything about my relationship with Morten—I think he views me more as a daughter than anything else—but, still...he was a part of our last fight, of...and besides, I still think about whether I'd be able to tell you, if I met someone.

Inasmuch as I wonder if I'd want to hear about you finding someone. It's...crazy. We weren't together for that long, after all. It shouldn't be so hard—and others are able to remain friends after a breakup, even if the relationship had lasted for years. We should be able to do so, too.

But...it's just so damn hard!

It's so hard thinking of you, thinking of...my mind often wanders back to the first day, to that airplane, to how you stormed in at the last second, panting and smiling. You talked to me, took my mind off all the dark thoughts. I was wondering whether I had made the right choice and your talking to me took my mind off of it all.

You made it easier to settle down in my new life—weird as it may sound, all things considering. And I think that's what makes this so hard. Knowing that, without you, I might not have made it; at least, not as easily and smoothly as I did.

Just think how much more we'd have accomplished, if you weren't spending your days and nights in that small dive. Which, apropos, I visited a day after I received your first email.

I wanted, I think, to get a sense of you. To feel...as if you were around. Admittedly, the place reminded me of you. Maybe, it was just my idea, because I knew you had been there; but, still, it felt as if you were right there, sitting next to me.

Nursing a drink, like I've seen you do so many weekend mornings.

I really don't know what to say, how to end this...so...this is it.

* * * *

From: Peter

To: Penelope

Date: 18/09/2017

I don't know why I'm writing—I suppose, you made it clear in your last email how hard it is for you to receive these emails from me and therefore I didn't send anything sooner, but...

Damn it, I just couldn't help myself. Perhaps, it's the drink to blame. As I sit in this small Oslo bar, downing beers and whiskey to keep warm—how cold does it get up her in the winter, if it's already freezing??—I thought of you and...thought of you in that dive close to your apartment.

Where I probably fucked our whole relationship up; I just saw you there and my heart skipped a fucking beat. It's insane, I know; as you said, we weren't together for that long. Yet...how to stop my heart from feeling what it wants to feel, right?

I don't know; I've always been a proponent of drunk writing, because it's the only real writing, but, still...sometimes, maybe I should stop, maybe I should let hangover decide what's a good idea. Send this, or just scrap it and forget all about it?

Drink you away and let go? I don't know, can't decide; all I know is that the rotgut I'm drinking told me I should write you, for no other reason than that I hope to hear from you again.

Certainly, I wouldn't want to hear about you finding someone; it'd kill my already broken heart. But, if you do, I'll be happy for you, too. As long as you're happy. Insane, isn't it? feeling about you this way, whom I've known for only few months.

maybe, it was the passionate beginning, you know? Maybe that's what makes it all so damn fucking hard. The way it began—it wasn't a sweet romance, a long flirt, flattering of the heart and wondering "does (s)he like me?"

it was a dive to the bottomless ocean from the get go; no lifeboats, no vests, nothing. a leap of faith; and it did give us some very god moments. and some not that good. mostly good, though, right?

I've got to admit hereby, I had my chances to be with others; couldn't do it. you're still on my mind and as much as I'm trying to forget you, so I can stop emailing you and so we can both move on, I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it.

Insane? did I say that already? probably. I should edit this things before pressing send...

anyway, I just had to write to you; I'm gonna feel so awful reading this in the morning. it's the fun thing about drinking. you know something's a bad idea, but, you do it anyway, cause it's what your heart demands.

please, forgive me.

* * * *

From: Penelope

To: Peter

Date: 20/09/2017

I thought it was hilarious, what you sent; quite incomprehensible, I'll admit that, but, it was fun reading it. When you got drunk here, you always wrote in your notebook and kept everything to yourself. I suppose, then, your email was a good, long peek into your mind, huh?

Anyway, I thought about not answering—thought I should wait for the apologetic email. But, on the other hand, maybe you wouldn't send one; and, in all honesty, I'm not sure I'd like to receive one.

What I've always liked about you was how you always are yourself; drunk or sober, you're mean, somewhat nasty, but, all in all, kindhearted and nice. Even drunk, you retain those qualities—both the good and the bad.

And I suppose, there's another reason I'm writing—last night, I was out with Morten. Bit absentminded thinking of you—mostly worried, picturing you hammered in the streets of Oslo, not having a place to stay (where do you live, by the way? how are you getting by?)

Anyway! he tried to kiss me...I was so taken aback, I...kinda blacked out. Stormed out of the bar we were at, started crying, had no idea where I was. It was so horrible...then, as I sat in the taxi, I recalled how you said he was interested in "getting in my pants" as you so crudely put it. I so want to punch you in the face for being right!