BALLOON SQUIBBLE

by Jill

Apart from the flying displays which are full of beautifully maintained and lovingly cared for vintage planes, there are a number of sideshows and stalls selling memorabilia to visit, and we spend the early part of the afternoon wandering through them in between watching the aircraft buzzing overhead. My companions are having a riot, cracking jokes and poking fun at everything and anything, and I drift a little away, trying to distance myself from them enough not to be considered as much of a pain as I know they can become.

I find myself a convenient tree to lean against and watch benevolently as they launch into a mock jousting session. My eyes roam over the mingling crowds, seeing people stop to laugh or raise eyebrows in disbelief at what's going on, but I'm brought up short when over the heads of the passers-by my gaze locks onto a pair of bright blue eyes, under a high smooth forehead and straight brows. I catch a glimpse of a firm jawline and full, oh so inviting lips before I become immersed in the sparkling blue depths as he stares straight back at me. After what seems like hours but is probably only a few seconds, I see him grin at me and my heart does a funny sort of lurching thing as... oh wow, dimples! I grin back, sharing a moment of mutual wry humour at the lunacy of some people, but the crowd shifts between us, blocking him from view, and when they clear again I see with a stab of disappointment that he's gone....

The buffoons finish their silly games and gather up my friend and I, herding us on towards the next object of their fancy - and it's my stomach doing the lurching this time as I see where we're going. Over the trees marking the boundary between the airfield and the neighbouring farmland I can see rising up into the clear sky the multicoloured voluminous shape of a hot air balloon. Given that these are things with no visible underpinning means of support once they've left the ground, and that I have problems with anything higher than my kitchen stool, it's the last thing I want to go anywhere near, but I'm not going to give these overgrown children the pleasure of seeing my fear. So plastering a matching smile on my face I allow myself to be swept along by their enthusiasm to see how this new toy works.

The balloon is enormous when we get close to it, the basket dwarfed by its towering rustling billows, and the hot flame that shoots from the burner roars terrifyingly at intervals. Undeterred, my playmates mill around it, dragging me with them, asking questions non-stop of the harassed owners who are obviously in the process of setting sail - or whatever you do with one of these things. One of them calls to me, peering into the basket with interest and laughing when I find myself unwilling - or unable - to get anywhere near it. I can already see myself way up in the sky, leaning over the edge of the basket, leaning, leaning further until there is nothing to prevent me tumbling head over heels to crash into the hard earth. So vivid is that image, I'm held captive by it to the extent that when my arms are grabbed by over-exuberant hands and I'm hustled bodily to the basket's edge, I have no way of resisting. There are shouts filling the air around me, shouts that are abruptly drowned out by another roar from the burner and my own shrieks as my forward volition carries me headfirst into the very thing I was desperate to avoid.

Worse is to come, though - as I untangle myself from the heap I've become at the bottom of the basket, my stomach tells me in no uncertain terms that we are no longer stationary, and the shouts and yells from outside the disturbingly flimsy structure confirm that all is not well. Panic freezes me to the floor, which is just as well because the basket suddenly starts to shake and rock so alarmingly my knuckles go white from clinging to the metal struts that line the interior. I'm about to start yelling myself when a dark shape squirms over the rim and lands on top of me in an ungainly clutter of arms and legs. Briefly stunned by an elbow or knee colliding with my head, I have only vague awareness of a warm, solid weight wrapping around me, but a heady masculine aroma reaches my nostrils from the smooth skin my nose seems to be pressed against, and I force my watering eyes open to the hazy view of a somewhat familiar and rather alluring jawline right in front of them.

With a squeak I shift slightly, and am rewarded by a tightening of the arms which seem to be holding me, and the view in front of me shifts also, becoming a pair of definitely memorable and scintillatingly blue eyes which fade and blur as my vision clouds again...

…When I next manage to get my mind focussed again, it's to the realisation that I'm still lying in the bottom of the now swaying and creaking basket, but that the warm comforting presence which had been wrapped around me is no longer there. I force my eyes open, squinting up at the imposing sight of a pair of long, obviously muscular legs clad in tight black denim, rising away from me to meld into an immensely appealing butt. I assume that the rest of him must be equally impressive, but from this angle I can't really tell. What I can see is that he's fiddling with the burner in between leaning to peer over the basket's edge, a movement that seems to have the denim flowing and moulding itself over and around the undeniably powerful contours of his thighs and butt.

I must make some sound because he turns towards me again, the blue eyes full of concern but a small smile playing around those full mobile lips. He squats down beside me again, reaching a hand to catch my chin and turn my head to one side so he can get a better look and giving me a stunning view of the way his chest and shoulders stretch the thin wool of the black v-neck jumper he's wearing. The warm touch of his fingers sends an odd little shiver through me, a shiver that is repeated as he uses his other hand to brush aside my hair from my forehead and probe gently at what proves to be a bit of a sore spot - probably a bruise - on my right temple. I flinch involuntarily and he apologises, smoothing away my frown of pain absently as he surveys me as if looking for other injuries - which I'm pleased to say I don't think I have. I'm mesmerised by his soft accent as he continues, saying he didn't really have a lot of options open to him when he saw the balloon already taking off with me inside and everyone else standing around shouting at each other. It was either wave me bon voyage or grab one of the trailing ropes and climb on up after me, and having taken the second route he didn't have a great deal of control over his landing.

Shakily I ask if we're nearly back down again and he laughs, the sound sending little ripples of pleasure through me. He gets a hand under my elbow and urges me to my feet, telling me that it's much better than that. Wondering what could be better than being on the ground, I pull myself upright and look out over the rim where he's pointing, realising to my absolute horror that we must be at least fifty miles above the place I most want to be - the earth spreading out like a green and brown blanket below us. I can feel the blood drain from my face as I pull away from the side, my stomach churning in terror, but there's nowhere for me to escape to. He obviously realises all is not well and he moves in front of me, wrapping strong arms around me and pulling me into his embrace, and I bury my face in the juncture of his neck and shoulder, taking pleasure despite myself from the feel of his warm skin against mine even as I fight the fear that threatens to engulf me. But even though I can no longer see that which terrifies me, my knees start to tremble uncontrollably and I find myself sagging against the broad muscled planes of his chest......

…My knees finally give up the fight right about the time that an almighty roaring noise comes from above me, and the abrupt removal of my protector's supporting arms has me sinking into another undignified heap in the bottom of the basket with a squeak of fearful surprise. I realise the noise is coming from the burner which seems to have sprung into life unprompted, and that he'ss struggling to shut it off, but my stomach is telling me in no uncertain terms that we are going up at an alarming rate. I shut my eyes, taking deep breaths and concentrating on not throwing up everywhere, and I'm so deep in my own misery that I barely notice when the noise finally dies away. But I become aware that he has settled down beside me again as firm but gentle hands grasp my shoulders, folding me forwards until my forehead comes to rest against what I identify after a few startled seconds as the rough texture of the denim covering what I can now confirm is definitely a well-muscled thigh - and I think rather hysterically that this is probably as near as he can get to getting my head between my knees in the confined space.

A hand slides up to rest comfortingly on the back of my neck, fingers stroking my skin, massaging gently, sliding just inside the neck of my jumper to probe gently at the tense muscles of my shoulders, setting a whole new bunch of nerves jumping which have nothing to do with my phobia. I can hear him telling me it's OK, nothing to worry about, that the burner is off and we'll be heading on down just as soon as the air in the balloon cools enough, the soft sibilance of his accent fascinating me even as his words percolate. But I know we're higher than we should be, and visions of power pylons and low flying aircraft intrude on what I instinctively know could be a calming and - dare I say it - pleasurable experience…

My own self-pride tries to re-assert itself, telling me I'm making an idiot of myself, and I make an effort to pull myself together. I open my eyes and turn my head a little, wanting to get my bearings before I try to get myself upright again, but what leaps into focus in front of me is definitely not designed to help matters. My gaze is drawn automatically up the taut muscles of the thigh I'm resting against to the uncompromisingly masculine vista beyond, the tight denim straining over, and only serving to emphasise further, the contours of the unarguably impressive contents of his jeans only inches from my nose...

…I can feel a heated flush rising through me that owes as much to the suggestions for potentially delicious uses for said contents that my imagination is supplying me with as it does to the embarrassment I feel when I realise he's watching me, and from the broad grin he favours me with I have the strangest feeling he's reading my every thought. With a concerted effort I gather my scattered wits and push myself upright, finding it hard to meet his eyes but at the same time trying not to let my gaze be drawn back down to his groin again.

He tells me the view is really pretty impressive if I could only bring myself to look at it, but I'm thinking that the view from where I'm sitting is rather impressive too as, from under my lowered lashes, I admire the way his jumper ripples with his every movement, defining each individual muscle perfectly.

He asks if I want to give it another try, and it takes me a few seconds to realise what he's talking about. My stomach tells me absolutely not, no way, never, but I'm oddly keen not to have him think me a total wimp so after a brief battle with myself I end up nodding bravely as he tells me I can trust him, that he won't let me fall. As if to stress that point, he rises cat-like to stand and hold out a hand to me, clasping mine tightly with those long, strong fingers which I find myself imagining better occupied in other areas. I lock my gaze on the blue eyes smiling down at me, using the delightful sensations that they seem to produce in me to prevent myself thinking about what I'm doing as I allow myself to be pulled to my feet. The encouraging smile that plays about his lips broadens and he tells me I'm doing good, transferring my grip firmly from his hand to the basket's superstructure so he can move behind me. I feel a surge of panic at finding myself without his calming presence filling my vision, and I screw my eyes shut as another wave of dizziness washes over me. But he hasn't gone far - couldn't anyway, given the limiting size of our conveyance, as I could have told myself if I'd been thinking at all rationally - and before I can freak out completely he has slipped an arm round my waist to pull me back against the solid supporting strength of his body.

His closeness is an immediate distraction, flooding my mind behind my closed eyelids with images and feelings that send quivers of anticipatory pleasure through me. He obviously takes it for fear because he draws me closer still, resting his chin on my shoulder and telling me softly that it's OK, he's got me, and it's alright for me to open my eyes, his breath warming the exposed skin of my neck and tickling my ear. I lean into him instinctively, moulding myself to the contours of his torso, feeling his arm pressing across my stomach, heating my flesh even through the thickness of my jumper, and allow my hips to fall back under it's compelling force to meet his. And I'm gratified to learn that my recent close observations regarding the extent of his attributes were in no way understated as he reciprocates my movements, pushing his own hips forward and making it quite clear that something is arousing his interest…

...I pluck up sufficient courage to do as he suggests and inch my eyes open cautiously, catching my breath at the vista lying ahead of me, the fields like a patchwork quilt spread across the earth so far below. And oddly enough, my stomach doesn't seem to be objecting quite so much to the distance - it's too busy doing strange little flips of its own as my body continues to revel in the contact with his.

"Isn't it great?" he asks. "God, I love flying!" and I have to admit that I'd probably love it myself if I could always have him this close to take the fear away. So I lean back further into his embrace as I mumble my agreement, intensely aware of him through every millimetre of my skin where it meets his, despite the twin coverings of clothing, wondering distantly how the sensations would be multiplied if those coverings were not there. I vaguely hear him say something else, something that sounds remarkably like, "It gives me a real hard-on," and although I'm not sure I heard right, his close proximity leaves me in no doubt that statement would be undeniably true.

I'm suddenly aware of those strong fingers sliding under the hem of my jumper to encounter the bare skin beneath, sending heat radiating from each point where they make contact. He's still pressed behind me, but this new assault on my nerve endings has me grinding myself back against him, raising a gasp of surprise and - dare I say it - pleasure from him. His lips glide up the side of my arched neck as I let my head drop back onto his shoulder, the light stubble on his jawline tickling where it touches, teeth nibbling, nipping, distracting me from the downward path of his hand which slides almost unnoticed inside the waistband of my jeans, pushing down across my belly...

...As if not wanting to be left out, his other hand slips under my jumper to join the first, targeting the button of my jeans, undoing it and the zip to give himself more room to manoeuvre, before it moves in the opposite direction, gliding with tantalisingly shiver-inducing effect up over my ribcage. All of a sudden I'm finding it very hard to breathe, my body starting to tremble under the double impact of his exploring hands coupled with the hot hardness I can feel pressing up against me from behind.

I'm still clinging to the metal framework supporting the now inactive burner above me, and I'm very glad of the support it provides as my knees turn to jelly, driven by the quivery sensations his touch is provoking. I'm torn between concentrating on the exquisite feel of his fingers as they delve through the tangle of hair to encounter my heated wetness, spurred on by his murmur of satisfaction at finding me so aroused already, and his delicious sparking exploration of my breasts, his hand cupping them one by one, freeing them from my bra, rolling, squeezing, teasing my nipples to hard peaks. In some distant part of my brain I vaguely think that this is going too fast, that I shouldn't be so easy, but my body has become one big mass of hormonally-driven, ecstatically responsive flesh and I know that there's no way on this planet I want to stop this pleasure.

His fingers seek out and find the little nub of incredibly sensitive nerve-endings between my legs, rubbing gently, and I manage to find sufficient breath to raise a moan of delirious delight at the effect it has, reflexively jerking my hips alternately forwards towards his hand and back to grind against him as my inner muscles clench and spasm at his touch. I know I'm in danger of coming way too soon if he keeps going like that, but it seems he has other plans and my moans of delight give way to a groan of disappointment as his hands pull away. Not for long, though - he slides round me, ducking under my upraised arm to appear, grinning broadly, in front of me, blue eyes sparkling with exhilaration and lust. He whispers to me not to let go as he slips his hands down inside the back of my jeans, gripping, kneading my bottom, pulling my hips forward to press my bare stomach against what I can feel is the almost scorching tumescent evidence of his excitement even through the coarseness of the thick denim covering it, crushing his full lips down to mine, insinuating his tongue past my parted teeth to find my own as eager and willing to play...

...As the kiss deepens and the obvious power of his arousal floods though me, I find myself desperately wanting to touch him as he's touching me, delve under the screening cover of his jeans to explore the obvious delights hidden beneath, but my fear of being way up here with nothing but a thin skinned bag of hot air to keep us from plunging to our deaths comes back to haunt me and I'm unable to loosen my grip on the metal bars above my head. But before I can tell myself not to be so pathetic, and to take hold of the moment - not to mention the warm and solid torso rubbing intimately against mine, and the tight and muscled butt I'd observed earlier - he pulls away again, leaving me panting, mouth tingling from the prolonged contact with his.

I squint up at him in dazed surprise, seeing the speculative passion burning in the depths of his gaze as his fingers drift up across my sides to lift my jumper, allowing him access to my breasts again. I hold my breath as he lowers his head to nuzzle the soft responsive skin there, tongue rippling around my nipples in gentle circles and drawing a moan of gratification from me. But the contact is too brief as again he moves on, hands sliding back down inside my jeans again, looking up with a crooked grin as if to gauge my reaction as he sinks to his knees in front of me, taking my clothing with him as he goes, leaving me exposed to the elements - and him.

I have time for a brief flash of awkwardness at the absurdity of being up here, however many feet above the ground, standing like an idiot with my jeans and knickers down around my ankles in front of the most attractive man I've seen in a month of Sundays. But that's all forgotten in the next instant as his hands move smoothly back up over my calves, encouraging them apart, tickling the sensitive area behind my knees on their way to trace increasingly complex and stimulating patterns over the backs of my thighs. I close my eyes with a groan, hoping that he hadn't seen my embarrassment, not wanting to do anything that would make him stop doing what he's doing. I can feel myself start to quiver again, stomach muscles tightening in anticipation even before the sensation of his warm breath blowing gently on the damp curls between my legs, followed closely by the feather-light touch of his fingers gliding clandestinely around to trickle up my inner thighs, overwhelms me. And as those fingers reach their goal, slipping effortlessly into the incredibly heated wetness they find there, parting me, opening me up to his ministrations, giving free admission to lips and teeth and infinitely agile tongue to investigate the scenery they've revealed, I'm not ashamed to admit I'm close to screaming at the excruciating pleasure rocketing through me…

… He increases the tempo, tongue lapping, teasing, probing, playing in concert with his fingers until my whole world is centred on what he's doing and where he's doing it and how good it feels. Too soon I feel the first precursive spasms, electric in their intensity, exponentially increasing the tremors affecting all my muscles, and that is sufficient for my legs to finally give up the unequal task of keeping me upright. Even my hands seem to know there's no way back this time and relinquish their life-saving grip, sending me dropping rather gracelessly to my knees with a moan, feeling his arms go round me and pull me to him to prevent the both of us tumbling over.

For a moment I just cling to him, shuddering, panting breathlessly as the sensations continue to flood through me, but my tingling nerve-endings are too aware of his proximity, my nostrils too full of the musky scent of him, to let me rest, still greedy for more despite what he's already given me. And when I raise my head to look up into the turbulent blue eyes staring down at me, heavy lidded with lust, full lips parted and glistening slickly with my own juices, I'm driven to act without conscious thought. Raising my lips to his, tasting myself on them as I greedily suck them into my mouth and force my tongue past them to find his, with a low growl I push him firmly back to sprawl against the side of the basket, long legs spreading as I wriggle between them.

Once I have him pinned there, held captive by my kiss, I give into those earlier impulses and reach to tug at the bottom of his jumper, sliding it up over his chest so my hands can explore the fascinating and alluring musculature previously hidden to me, feeling each of them ripple convulsively under my touch as I glide over them. My fingers seek out his nipples, rolling my thumbs over them much as he'd done to me, hearing and relishing the groan rumbling through him to erupt into our mouths, still joined in an increasingly voracious kiss. His own hands come up to tug me towards him again but I resist, batting them away so I can continue to do what I want. And right now, there's only one thing I really want - him…

…I allow my fingers to trail back down over his smooth heated skin to the waistband of his jeans, feeling his hips lurch forward slightly as I drift further down, brushing the bulge distending the front of them, enjoying the way my touch affects him. But I'm left drooling in anticipation - if what I'd seen there before was impressive, it's obvious from even this cursory examination that the situation has improved ten-fold. Well, from my selfish perspective, anyway. And this shreds what's left of my self-control, sending me groping for the button and zip so I can free him, which I manage to accomplish in record time, using both hands to push away the denim before lifting the elastic of his boxers carefully up and over the fascinating obstruction pulsing beneath so I can peel down the unwanted fabric.

He leaps, fully erect, into my hand, the whole imposing length of him throbbing with need, and I savour his moans as I sweep my fingers up and down the silky softness of him, wanting to acquaint myself with each and every surface, every nook, every cranny, teasing, squeezing, probing, only distantly aware that his hands have returned to their own explorations. But I quickly realise touch is not enough, and pull away, rocking back on my heels to gaze dry-mouthed at the sight of him lying before me, taking in the way his broad chest is heaving, eyes watching me avidly, mouth slack with desire and wanting, before they are drawn irresistibly to the thick and solid column of flesh rising brashly from the curling hair at its base, rosy-dark and vibrating with its barely controlled need for release. I lick my lips unconsciously, seeing him mirror my action before I lower my head to begin a closer investigation, wanting to emulate his earlier exploits, gratified by the way he rears towards me as I blow gently on the head of his swollen shaft, tongue darting out to swirl around the crown and down towards what lies below…

…My concentration is rudely disturbed, however, by the thump that suddenly reverberates through the basket, the wickerwork creaking ominously as it collides with something, and abruptly my world is turned upside down as I'm flung sideways with some force. My immediate panic-struck thoughts of 'Oh God, we've hit a pylon, we're going to die," are short-lived, though, as I find myself coming to an unexpectedly rapid halt instead of flying endlessly through the air to a messy death, and it takes a few moments for me to realise that we've stopped moving. We - not just me, and I understand that while we've been otherwise engaged our transportation has landed. That's another thought that doesn't have much of a life-span, because those quivering nerve endings finally get my attention sufficiently for me to realise that there's something warm and solid - oh, and demanding - pressing down against me as I lie flat on my back on what feels remarkably like grass. I unscrew my eyes enough to confirm what my body is telling me, seeing the billowing but obviously deflating balloon above me even as I catch the startled look in the wide blue gaze much nearer to hand.

That look is fleeting, however, replaced almost immediately by a return of the speculatively passion-filled one of just a short time ago as he realises that the tables have been turned and that he now has the upper hand again. My hands sliding down his flanks to push away his jeans and shorts so I can finally get to grips with the firm tautness of his butt just seems to encourage him - as I intended it should - and I'm intensely aware of the fact that whatever the balloon is doing, there's no deflating going on elsewhere in the vicinity. And though some part of me is flashing a warning that this is bound to end in tears, that now we're on the ground we're likely to have company at any moment, the rest of me knows I've as much chance of stopping the sun rising as I have of preventing the inevitable now.

He uses a thigh to part mine, twisting his hips to position himself between them, and I manage to work my foot out of the far too impeding garments knotted about my ankles so that I can spread them further for him, lifting my pelvis to grind myself against the pulsating searing hotness of him, telling him without words what I want. His expression, momentarily questioning, clears immediately to be replaced by one of deep pleasurable anticipation as I slide a hand between us to guide him into me, shifting slightly to accommodate his long slow inexorable thrust, thankfully giving me time to adjust to the sheer size of him, the sensation of him throbbing all the way up inside me leaving me gasping breathlessly. Through glazing eyes I can see him raised on his elbows, looking down at me as if waiting for something, and I lift my legs to hook them round the back of his, working the fingers of one hand into the cleft between his tensed buttocks to seek out the sensitive areas there and using the other to pull him even closer to me. He resists, withdrawing just slightly before resuming his forward progress and, though I could have sworn he'd already reached my very core, he manages to find depths I never knew I had and the intense stimulation of the coarse hair at the base of his erection rubbing heatedly against that nub of over-sensitised nerves is almost enough to take me over the edge again without him even moving.

But move he does, slowly at first, eyes holding mine - at least initially - to see the effect he's having on me, as I'm watching him. But it's obvious neither of us can hold on long enough to keep it slow, nor do we particularly want to, and the tempo of our engagement builds rapidly as he pushes himself up onto his hands to increase the power and potency of his driving strokes, drawing my hips off the ground to meet his in a rhythm older than time itself. My hands slide up to grasp his waist, thumbs circling inwards towards his groin, egging him on to even greater efforts as I'm consumed by the fire he's creating inside me, the frictioning reaching levels of intensity from which there is only one escape. And escape we do, his final short but ever deeper thrusts coupled with the locking of the quivering, rock-solid muscles of his belly prefacing the onset of orgasm as he rams himself to the hilt way up inside me, yelling his release to the skies and taking me with him, my own inner muscles clamping reflexively around him, squeezing, spasming, drawing every last ounce of pleasure from his presence within me before I lose him…

…With a satiated sigh he sags down against me, his heated sweat-sheened flesh meeting mine, and I can feel the pounding of his heart resonating through me, echoing my own. His head drops onto my shoulder, face pressing into the base of my throat and resting there briefly, panting breath caressing my neck as he works to bring it under control. I wrap my arms around him and pull him tighter to me, fingers probing the few tense spots still remaining in his lower back, feeling the faint reciprocal twitches from the fading warmth already slipping away from my inner grip. After a few minutes, though, he raises his head again, his lips brushing along my jawline on their way to flicker lingeringly over mine, eyes laughing at me - no, with me, because I know my expression is one of immensely smug self-satisfaction and delight. The way I'm feeling right now I could probably manage to take to the skies without the benefit of balloons, or any other form of airborne transport. Just him.

Something whispers against my arm and I drag my eyes away from his to find the world has been eclipsed by a multicoloured shroud, the balloon having collapsed to the extent that it's just about to wrap us in its silken folds. He lifts his head at my suppressed giggle, following my gaze with his, and a broad grin of shared humour spreads across the lush fullness of his lips revealing a flash of even white teeth, the accompanying return of those dimples setting my pulse fluttering again. Somewhere in the distance I can hear unwelcome noises - sounds of cars pulling up, car doors slamming and voices calling - and I know the world is about to intrude, but I want to prolong this intimacy for just a little longer. It seems he feels the same way, lowering his head again to bring his mouth close to my ear as the balloon shields us completely from outside view, whispering words that set me off giggling out loud despite my body's complaints at the loss of contact with his as, with a final kiss of some intensity, he pulls away.

By the time the search party reaches us, we've fought our way free of the balloon's embrace and are standing, clothing returned to at least a semblance of order albeit a little more crumpled than when we started out, by the overturned basket. The balloon's owners are first to reach us, demanding to know how I could have been so stupid as to take off like that, how he could have risked damaging the basket with his daredevil antics, more worried by the mud staining the now somnolent fabric than our well-being, and I have to swallow back a bubble of slightly hysterical laughter at their response to the situation. A sideways glance does nothing to help my condition, the bemused expression on the strong face I'd been so closely acquainted with so recently forcing the laughter out in something resembling a hiccup. But the arrival of my friends, along with a couple of strangers - a dark-haired man and a petite, oriental looking woman - whose attention is firmly focussed on my companion, distract me sufficiently to allow me to get myself under control. Well, almost. Because as he brushes by me to meet the approaching throng, he murmurs, "Incoming," in my ear, his breath raising fleeting goosebumps on the skin of my neck.

My friend looks at me quizzically as she reaches me, taking in the smile I seem unable to keep off my face and the slight flush tingeing my cheeks - all down to the fresh air, honest - and I just know I'm in for a serious grilling the moment she gets me alone. But as, out of the corner of my eye, I see him flick a glance back over his shoulder at me, eyes full of mirth and… yes, and promise, my mind is too full of his whispered words to really care at the moment.

"Well, I guess flying gives you a hard-on, too. So, wanna go up again? The sky's the limit - but let's try and find something with a little more juice in the tank next time, OK? Gotta feeling we could do with a lot more airtime." And watching the fluid movement of his muscles under the barely camouflaging black clothing, with my body shamelessly reminding me how good they felt to be pressed against, I'm inclined to believe that, far from being the limit, the sky might really be just the beginning.

THE END

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