The Youthnage Experience 1: The Plane Ride

I got to the airport early for my mid-morning flight, and was waiting at the gate for the plane to begin boarding. That's when I noticed the three big guys heading toward my waiting area. They plunked their stuff down and sat in the seats across from me, three big meatheads, all brooding and dark looking. It didn't take me long to realize that I recognized them from the new pro wrestling league. I had just watched them fight on tv the night before. The two bigger men were a tag team, and I didn't remember their names, but the other guy, I remembered. He was Jack Calhoun, a ripped to shreds musclehead who was clearly stronger and faster than any of the other guys in the new league. He was the new Rick Rude of wrestling, with his chiselled good looks, deeply ridged six-pack, and arrogant as hell attitude. I had whacked off to the bastard just last night. And now, here he was, in the flesh, wearing big black workboots, a tight pair of jeans, and an even tighter black tee that showed off every ripped muscle. 

They announced my flight and I waited for them to call my row. Then I boarded the plane and got to my aisle seat in row 4, the bulkhead row with no seats in front of it, just the wall separating coach from first class. I picked this seat on purpose, for more leg room. There was only the window seat to my left. It seemed like most of the passengers had boarded when I heard commotion up front. The wrestler dudes were entering. The tag team boys passed me by, and headed for the back of the plane. Jack Calhoun followed, but he stopped at my aisle and lifted up his carry-on bag to put it in the overhead, which was already crammed. As he let go of his bag, it slipped out, and would have hit me in the head if I hadn't been watching his every move. I reached up and stopped the bad just as he grabbed it.

"You should be more careful there, big boy," I unexplainably blurted, "whatta got in there, dumbbells?" 

He looked down at me like he was just realizing there were other human beings on the plane with him. Wordlessly, he smashed his bag into the overhead and slammed it shut. Then he looked at his ticket and said to me "This row 4?" 

It took everything in my power not to go "Duhh." Instead I shook my head yes.

"You mind sitting in the window seat, bub? I like stretching out my legs during the flight," he said to me.

"Yeah, well, the problem is, so do I... bub," I answered. He leaned down and put his face about an inch from mine. He looked like the kind of man who might have done some hard jail time before finding success in the pro wrestling world.

"What did you just say?" he said slowly.

"I said, I love the window seat and don't know why this stupid airline ever put me in the aisle to begin with," as I moved my lame ass over to the window.

"That's what I thought you said," replied Jack, as he sat down next to me. Now, I had seen this guy on TV many times, but sitting next to him was a whole different ballgame. He was like a physically superior species, a hypermasculine muscle presence, exuding strength and control. And I had already managed to piss him off. But I was intent on making it better.

"I know who you are," I said.

He turned to me and said, or, rather, sort of growled, "What?" 

I was beginning to think he had a hearing problem, but thought better than to ask. Instead, I just spoke louder. "I SAW YOU ON TV LAST NIGHT. GREAT FIGHT!"

"Shit, dude, you don't have to fuckin' yell."

"Sorry." So now he can hear. "Anyway, good show you put on. Too bad they didn't let you win."

"Let me win?" he said, very slowly, scanning me up and down.

"Yeah, you know, in the script, let you come out the winner. You should have the belt by now, man."

"So you think wrestling is all fake?"

Oh boy. " no. Totally real, all real....never seen anything so real." Shit. 

Then he put his hand on my knee. He had big hands. Big thick muscle hands. All veiny too. Even his thick fingers had veins. He squeezed my leg, and lightning bolts of pain seared through my whole body. I tried to pull my leg away, but couldn't budge it. He leaned over into my ear and whispered, "That feel real, boy?"

"Yesss," I managed.

"Cause that's just ten percent of my grip strength, punk. Imagine if I decided to do this," and he squeezed down harder. The pain made me gurgle in agony. My vision was blurred by the white light of pain. I pushed with both my hands against his forearm, which bulged with popeye-sized muscle. "Twenty percent," he said. "You want to see more?"

"Fuckk you," I stammered, like an idiot. I think he was taken aback that anyone could be so stupid. He squeezed harder.

"Thirty percent" he whispered, as every nerve fiber in my body exploded in an alarm. I was sure he was doing tissue damage to my leg, and couldn't believe that my kneecap wasn't shooting through the bulkhead wall in front of us. I was about to lose consciousness, when my mind grasped onto something I had seen last night. During his title fight, Jack's opponent had shoved him into the turnbuckle, and Jack had landed against it, right on his nose. It hadn't looked like part of the plan, but the wrestlers only hesitated a moment before getting back into the groove. I focused now on Jack's nose. It did appear somewhat swollen. So I reared back my head, and SMASHED my forehead into the bridge of his nose. I heard a crunch, then felt his grip release. I looked at him, and he was holding his nose, and had a stunned look on his face. If we were in a cartoon, I would have seen stars circling his head. Then I saw his eyes start to clear, as his wrestler's brain began to override his pain and focus on his opponent.

"You little mutherfucker," he said.

Not good.

He put his big hand around my throat and lifted me half out of my seat. He would have pressed me into the ceiling, except I had my seatbelt fastened.

"I'll fucking kill you," he hissed, and I believe he would have, but right at that moment I heard the attendent saying "Anything to drink, gentlemen?" Jack dropped me back into my seat, turned to her and said, "No, ma'am, we're fine." 

She looked at him, confused, then at me.

"Lover's spat," I said to her, rubbing my neck. 

She moved onto the next aisle. "You are so dead," said Jack, but before he could crush the life out of me, I reached down between his legs, grabbed his groin and squeeezed, hoping, hoping, that I had his balls. Apparently, I did. He arched back against his seat hard, and I squeezed harder. Even through his jeans, I could tell I had a good handful of his big sac, so I squeezed harder still. Now he was sweating, and as he made a movement to come at me, I twisted my wrist.

"Sonofafuckingbitchdeadman," he hissed through his teeth. Then I realized he was beginning to focus. This damned wrestling bull was going to override even the pain of me crushing his balls. But then I did a little focusing of my own, and realized that he had a raging hard on. So I took the risk of a lifetime, and shifted my grip to his cock and stroked him. He groaned and pushed into me, so I stroked again. I have a magic touch when it comes to stroking guys off, and it was working on Jack. My fingers sensed what the penis liked, and I worked Jack into a frenzy of ecstasy. He gripped the armrests of his chair hard, and I could hear the hard plastic cracking under his huge hands. I took another risk, and reached into his pants, grabbing his naked cock and working it, stroking it slow and hard, and his big hard dick was so hot to the touch that you could have fried an egg on it. I stroked that big wrestler's cock like my life depended on it, and it just might have. His eyes glazed over, and I used his own pre-cum to lube him up even more. Finally, he shot a huge load, growling deeply and snapping off his armrests as he came. He looked at me and raised his hand toward my head. I flinched slightly, but with one rough finger, he traced my jawline, held my chin in his palm for a second, then fell asleep.

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