Pros on a Plane

The meet at 11:30 in the morning had been set for Jason by his Los Angeles escort agency at the Gaslight Club in the Hilton Chicago O'Hare Airport hotel, the only hotel inside the terminal area of the airport. Jason, going by the name of Josh, was to meet a Hans there for lunch, for starters, during Jason's layover for his Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt and then, after another layover assignment, on to Prague. Jason had no illusions about why they were meeting in a hotel restaurant. He wouldn't need to be at the gate, with an hour to spare, for the flight to Germany until 3:00 p.m. There'd be time for two guys coming somewhere different and headed somewhere different to do it without the tryst being seen on anyone's radar.

Heinrich Friedlich, using the name Hans, stood in the entrance doorway to the Gaslight Club, surveying those at the tables, until he recognized the professional male prostitute, a young, small, strikingly handsome, almost beautiful, blond with a willowy figure, emerald-green eyes, and an arresting smile. He'd been shown a photo of him on the Internet to assure recognition. Josh, as he was from this point forward for the carefully planned and booked layovers going and coming and the long weekend in Prague, had been watching the entrance, expecting the client to appear, but he could be excused for letting his eyes drift right over Hans, even though he too had been shown a photo. This was an airport. Hans was wearing a Lufthansa flight crew uniform. He was a senior airline pilot. Hans had been wearing civilian clothes in the photo Josh had seen.

Hans arrested Josh's gaze and nodded. Josh smiled, pleased enough when he looked beyond the uniform and realized who the client was to be. Hans, middle-aged, but a commanding and fit figure, was well above the norm among the clients Josh had to service, where money, not presentability, ruled. He wore the commercial airline pilot's uniform and persona well.

It was clear now why the meeting could be here in a hotel in an airport. Nifty, Jason thought. They'd have their fuck and then both fly out of here. No strings or entanglements--and no nosy others eager to gather evidence of a client's infidelity. This probably meant Hans had a wife and kids. This, in fact, was a clever and convenient setup the more exclusive escort agencies were using since many of the major airports now had hotels integrated with them that catered to travelers who didn't want to continually go through security checks or risk scrutiny and exposure when they had long layovers. Now, with a layover of four or more hours, a very-well-heeled man or woman with a sexual fetish and wanting to stave off airplane travel boredom could arrange to be entertained during their travel in a city not connected with them, and they and the prostitute could then fly out in separate directions never to be linked again.

Hans indicated to the hostess that he saw his party and came to the table. Josh stood. "I assume you are Josh?" Hans asked, giving the young, slender blond an appreciative look.

"Yes," Josh said. He indeed was Josh for meetings like this. The man was a couple of inches taller than he was and maybe twice Josh's age. The age sat well on him. He was solidly built, but not fat. He probably had to be in reasonable trim to be flying a commercial jetliner. He was gray haired, but this too sat on him well. He had a close-cropped beard and just the hint of a mustache. He looked quite dapper in his flight uniform. He probably had no trouble hooking up simply by going to a gay bar. This way was probably just an easier arrangement, although it supported the supposition that he had family entanglements he wanted to hide his sexual preferences from.

"I'm Hans," he said. "May I sit?"

"Certainly, please do," Josh said, knowing the man's name wasn't really Hans. He was somewhat deflated that the client was an airline pilot rather than some billionaire Josh would recognize from the news. He wouldn't be as well-heeled as Josh could usually expect and savor with the thought of something like, "I was screwed by Bill Gates." The flip side was that the client here was in better fit than most he had gone under. He'd enjoy the tryst more, and the fee, in any case, had been paid. It would only be the tip that probably would be less--but only probably, because Josh had found that billionaires were more likely to be cheapskates as not. That's how they got to be billionaires.

"But not for long," the airline pilot said.

"Excuse me? But what not for long?"

"I can't sit here for long. I do have a flight to take. May I order you a drink?"

"That would be nice." It didn't take much of a signal from the air captain for a waitress to arrive. The senior-pilot flight suit had that effect in an airport. Airline pilots were the cream of the crop in an airport and everyone in business here knew they were on a stringent schedule. Josh only momentarily wondered where they were going to do this, before having thought it would be at a hotel away from the airport and thus rather quick. Maybe the guy just wanted a blow job, but this was rather an involved tryst to set up if that's all he expected to get. The escort agency told him very little about the assignment. If the authorities pulled Josh in, they wanted him to be able to tell them little about their use of airports for operations. It was obvious now it would be right here in the airport Hilton.

The man was very direct. "I have a room here at the Hilton in the terminal. When does your flight leave?"

"I would like to be at the gate by 3:00." Josh wanted to have plenty of time in place before his flight to Frankfurt left. Per directions from the service, he didn't want to reveal what flight he was taking.

"It's almost twelve. I will have you for two and a half hours, right?"

"Yes."

"And you'll take cock for two hours? Your listing said you were athletic and experienced in rough sex."

"Yes. Whatever you wish," Josh said. The man was certainly good looking, but he didn't look like a man who could go for two hours or would be cruel. In this, Josh was wrong.

The man took a bottle of pills out of his jacket pocket and popped three. Josh recognized the bottle. He knew that Hans would be rock hard within fifteen minutes and that he'd still be hard when Josh caught his flight.

"I'm paying for bareback," the man said.

"Yes, I understand that. You have a doctor's certificate to show me? Here's mine."

Hans had, and showed the certificate, dated earlier in the day. They were clear for what he wanted--what he was paying for.

Athleticism and endurance were the watchwords of the next two and a half hours. Hans's specialty was positions. Josh didn't mind being balled by him--the man turned out to be very fit for his age and slightly hirsute, his chest and pubic hair more northern Germany blond than the gray on his head. He knew how to do this. He obviously was a German--precise and disciplined and disciplining, barking orders on position changes and using Josh with military precision--which went with flying for Lufthansa, Josh supposed. And he was big boned, especially the one between his thighs and especially because that was pill enhanced.

Josh made sure that he was putty in the man's hands and completely surrendered to the positions the airline pilot demanded to put him in. The man taxed his flexibility, making Josh do the splits across the foot of the bed, facing the headboard and leaning forward, supporting his weight on the palms of his hands pressed into the mattress. When the man put the leather strap aside that he had briefly used on Josh's back, buttocks, and thighs, he covered Josh from behind and above, thrust up inside him, and fucked him in a precise rhythm.

After a brief respite during which the pills the man had taken kept him fully erect, Hans fucked Josh again. He was strong, his muscles bulging as he fucked Josh in a position the young man knew to be called the Flying Dutchman, Hans standing, crouching to hold himself in balance, and Josh cantilevered out over the carpet of the hotel room in front of the man, his legs hooked on the man's hips, streaming behind Hans's body, the man grasping Josh's wrists, arching Josh's torso back sharply, and the man pulling the younger man on and off the cock.

Hans was paying the escort agency top euro, the agency had a reputation for providing the most experienced and pliable prostitutes, and Hans had the German trait of demanding to receive all that he was paying for. There had been no secret that he would use the whip and restraints as he liked. Josh had an appetite for this on occasion. The Germans tended to know where the limitations were and efficiently worked right up to that line but not beyond it. When Josh watched World War II movies his attention and arousal went to the cruel, disciplinary, goose-stepping Nazi officers. Hans was one of those.

The leadup to the finale after they each had come twice and Hans wanted them both to come again, had the man sitting on the foot of the bed, with Josh's ankles on his shoulders, facing down, and the young man's body streaming down to the floor, Josh's cheek to the carpet and his palms pressed to the floor, while, gripping the young man's hips, the airline pilot pulled the prostitute's channel on and off the cock. Josh could almost sense the man barking out "Eins, zwei, drei," in perfectly measured, clipped tones to call out his thrusts.

For the final blast they were in a classic missionary position, Josh on his back, his knees hooked on Hans's hips and the older man hovering over him, capturing Josh's eyes with his, whispering, "Ergeben Sie sich mir. Gib mir deine Ejakulation--Surrender to me. Give me your ejaculation," and fucking him slow and deep, while Josh stroked himself off, arching his back and moaning as Hans released again and again deep inside his channel. The older man was hard as a rock to the end.

Professional rent-boy that Josh was, he was able to make a man forget that he was fucking a professional. Josh could act everything from the virgin to the firecracker wanton, according to the mood he sensed in the client. This one obviously wanted the long-time and athletic coupling of a prisoner of war. He wanted a male whore who took the punishment in stride and with respect for authority.

Hans showered and dressed before Josh and left him a hefty tip. He obviously had enjoyed the athletic workout and Josh couldn't say he hadn't as well.

Their day wasn't completely over then but continued with Hans being surprised. When he and the rest of his flight crew showed up at their gate at 3:15 for the 4:00 p.m. Lufthansa flight from Chicago to Frankfurt, the flight captain saw that Josh was sitting in the waiting area, ready to take the same flight. By now Josh had pretty much figured out, from what the pilot said about his regular flying routes, that Hans would be flying him again for several hours--if not as intimately and controllingly as he had done earlier in the afternoon.

Before the flight crew arrived in the departure area, Josh had made eye contact once or twice across the area with an arrestingly handsome Arab who was maybe four or five years older than Josh's twenty-five. A look of amusement went across the Arab's face when he saw the reaction of the flight's pilot, "Hans," to Josh sitting in the area, and after the flight crew went through the door to the raceway to the plane, he turned the smile to Josh and nodded his head as if he guessed the situation. The plane's pilot was flying Josh in more ways than sex.

* * * *

The sex had been exhausting for Josh even if he was used to taking a cock three or four times a day. Partly thanks to the drug he took, the airplane pilot had been able to fly him nonstop. Hans had been determined to get his money's worth. So, Josh was dozing when, after they'd gotten up in the air from Chicago, a male flight attendant, who had been flirty with Josh handed him a glass of brandy. From the way the attendant was presenting it, Josh knew it was the good stuff and, although drinks were free in business class, he was being served first.

"Compliments of Captain Friedlich," the attendant said, almost in a whisper and with a knowing smile, "and this note." The note contained the name "Heinrich Friedlich, Frankfurt based," and an international telephone number. The flight attendant winked at him before moving off. So, Hans was really Heinrich Friedlich. And Friedlich no doubt was fucking the male flight attendant--and had told the attendant he'd fucked Josh and wanted to do so again.

Friedlich no doubt had enjoyed their afternoon session in the O'Hare Hilton--enough so that he shared his real name, although Josh could have gotten that from any of the flight attendants or by reading the crew chart near the door into the cockpit. Professional ethics had kept him from checking, though. This attempt at a post-fuck connection wasn't all that unusual. This often was a ploy, as Josh assumed it was here, by a client to short the escort agency and make future arrangements directly with the prostitute. Often they wanted it for free and were vain enough to think the prostitute had become smitten with them. Josh, like other high-class male prostitutes was expert in making the client feel like he was a sexual god who the prostitute melted to, money or no money.

Friedlich had justification for thinking he'd mastered Josh. Josh only rarely entertained such off-the-books hookups. The agency would fire him if it learned he would do this, and it would have to be quite an offer for Josh to risk being fired. He did pocket the airline pilot's contact information, though. This might be one of those times that he would risk it.

"I like these too." The voice was a rich baritone. It came from the window seat beside Josh. Josh and the occupant of the window seat had exchanged pleasantries when the man had to make Josh stand to get into his seat, both amused that they had exchanged smiles in the departure lounge and presumed shared knowledge about the plane captain's surprise at seeing that Josh would be on his flight. But they hadn't had a conversation during the flurry of boarding and takeoff procedures.

The man was gorgeous--an Arab, maybe in his late thirties, with Mediterranean sultry features, black, curly hair gathered in a bun at the back of his head, a closely trimmed black beard and mustache--the purposely groomed, perpetual five-o'clock shadow look. He had hazel eyes and a tight, muscular body. His white T-shirt was gauzy enough to reveal that his hard-bodied torso was covered in tattoos. They ran down his arms, as well. He was all man, and Josh thought he recognized him from somewhere, but couldn't place it.

"It's very smooth. Good brandy," Josh said, and, to be polite, added, "I'm sure the attendant will be back to continue the drink orders. He must have been pulled away for something else." Josh had been the only one served so far.

"You mean swish back, don't you?" the seatmate said. "That's a girly boy if I've ever seen one. But he'll strike out with you, won't he? But I wasn't speaking about the drink. I meant this book. It fell on the floor and I picked it up."

Josh was embarrassed. He hadn't given much thought to the book he'd brought on board. It was gay male erotica, and ironically it was about Egypt and the model on the cover could be a twin for the man sitting next to him on the plane. He had caught the "but he'll strike out with you" comment, but he couldn't figure out what the man meant by that.

"I read this author too," the man said. "I haven't read this one yet--the Cairo Surrender. Is it a good one? Lots of steamy sex, well written? Inventive positions? Men doing the hump bump?"

He was smiling. Josh didn't think he was making fun of him. It was a melting smile. He was signaling that he was interested in gay sex too. He touched Josh's right forearm with his fingers and when Josh didn't move his arm away, the hand settled there. "And I said I thought the flight steward would strike out with you because I think perhaps that you two would want the same thing, but you wouldn't simper for it."

Josh caught that the man was gauging him to be a male submissive. That intrigued him more than angered him, because it, in fact, was true, and, looking at the man now, Josh realized he'd been assessing him as a power top.

"If you're asking if I enjoy reading gay male erotica, I do," Josh said.

"So, obviously do I," the man said, holding the smile on his face, "although I much prefer performing it. My name is Naguib Habib," he added, reaching over with his other hand for an introductory shake. Then Josh knew who he was. He had boldly given Josh his real name--or at least the one he gave to the world. He'd been a star Egyptian footballer, retired from the game a couple of years previously--too early some had said. He had come out as gay--and, yes, as a power top--and been of quite a bit of interest to the tabloids at the time. What Josh really remembered him from, though, that most of the public didn't know, was that he'd gone on to do porn flicks. He was a power top in those. He specialized in dungeon sex--whips and chains and X-frames. Josh couldn't help but reveal he recognized the man from the change in his expression. In his line of work, Josh had become familiar enough with gay porn films to be able to name most of the major stars.

"The book is set in early twentieth-century Egypt," Josh said. "A young Englishman is kidnapped and seduced by his Egyptian jailer over a period of days during which the Englishman is led to believe his captor is also a prisoner. Very atmospheric. Beautiful men. It indicates that all Egyptian men are beautiful and seductive. You're Egyptian, aren't you?"

Habib's smile broadened. "A jailer? A dungeon then? Sexual torture is included in the seduction?" he said, as he held out his hand for a handshake.

"Yes, some bondage and sexual testing," Josh responded.

"And that didn't disturb you to read in this novel of yours?"

"No, not really."

"It perhaps excited you a bit?"

"Yes."

Habib smiled. As they shook hands, his thumb folded under to rub Josh's palm--a sign in the lifestyle of a top declaring himself. Josh instinctively put his hand into a sheath around the thumb, the signal of a willing bottom.

"There, I'm glad that's established," Habib said. "We have an eight-hour flight ahead of us. We might as well understand each other and be comfortable. So, does that welcome brandy for you in the flight captain's name mean he's just been balling you? You are a submissive, aren't you?"

"Something like that," Josh said, and they both laughed.

"He obviously screws that swishy flight steward."

"Yes, obviously," Josh agreed. They shared another laugh. Habib ran a hand up Josh's inner thigh and Josh spread his legs a bit.

"Do you recognize me from somewhere?" Habib asked. "You did a doubletake when you focused on looking at me."

"Egyptian soccer," Josh answered.

"And just that?"

"And later in adult flicks. And, I must now say, I think the cover model for this book is you."

"That's right on all counts--football, porn movies, that cover model. I do know what's in that book. And you've--"

"Seen you naked and in action, yes. You have a beautiful body, and you use it magnificently."

"So, you have no trouble with men using their bodies with other men on film? Bondage, whips, and chains?"

"Nor in real life."

Habib smiled again. "You yourself are a sexy one, you are. Can I hope you're a casual player--not just a smooth talker?"

"It would seem so, but--"

"But you're a pro, are you? There's a fee in the way? A quite stiff one?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Josh answered, and the regret in his voice was genuine.

The two laughed. What were the chances of two pros in the male sex field finding themselves sitting together on a long trans-Atlantic flight?