He rises. She surges.
The propane burner roars directly above my head, a dragon's breath of orange flame that singes the stray hairs escaping my messy bun. The heat is intense, a sharp contrast to the crisp dawn air biting at my nose and the bare skin of my thighs where my denim cutoffs end.
I check my phone again. Nothing. No text. No call. Just the silent, mocking wallpaper of Marco and me at an Arts Festival Gala last month.
"Marco," I mutter, shoving the phone into my back pocket, "You absolute prick."
He's not coming. Prick, re-directed by that blonde bitch Sasha to his office, forgetting that he promised me this romantic sunrise tour over the Barossa Valley. He paid for it, though. The receipt in my email confirms a non-refundable, private basket experience. I'm not wasting hundreds of dollars because he can't prioritise a cover model over a quarterly report. Fuck, I'll more than hit wine tasting later.
"Ready for lift off, uhm—Ms or Mrs?"
The voice is deep like tyres crunching on gravel.
"Miss, its Tasmin," I spit rather unfairly.
I look up. Hans. The pilot. He's wearing a heavy canvas flight suit that strains against his shoulders, unzipped halfway to reveal a worn grey t-shirt underneath. He's older, maybe mid-thirties, with sun-weathered skin and a jawline that looks like it was hewn from Flinders Ranges Dolomite. He holds the burner cord with a confidence that makes my knees wobble, just a little.
"My partner isn't coming," I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
The movement pushes my breasts up, highlighting the cleavage spilling out of my lace crop top. I see his eyes flick down, just for a microsecond, before snapping back to my face.
"So, it's just me."
Hans raises an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth twitching up.
"Well, you've paid, or your partner did. Business is business. Hop in. We can balance the weight with the fuel tanks."
I step into the wicker basket. It smells of dried grass, old leather, and that distinct, acrid scent of aviation fuel. It's a tight space, intimate. Hans climbs in after me, his presence immediately swallowing the available oxygen. He checks the instruments, his hands moving with practised precision, thick fingers toggling switches and checking gauges.
"Lift off in; three, two, one..." Practised voice for tourists and honeymooners. Not needed today, but cute.
He pulls the cord. The blast of fire deafens me for a moment, and then the ground falls away. The sensation isn't like a plane taking off; it's a gentle, surreal detachment. The winery grounds, the neat rows of Shiraz vines, the dew glistening on the grass—it all shrinks into a patchwork quilt below us. The silence returns, save for the occasional hiss of the burner and the wind whistling against the nylon envelope.
We rise higher, drifting with the morning breeze. The isolation is absolute. We are suspended in a bubble of air, alone above the waking world. I lean against the railing, looking out at the mist rolling over the valley.
"Spectacular view," Hans says, standing close behind me.
His body radiates heat. "Best in the world, if you ask me. I'm a sixth-generation German migrant, bloody beautiful family wine, at the end of the flight."
"It is," I breathe, turning my head.
Our faces are inches apart. I can smell him now—sweat, soap, and that masculine musk that goes straight to my clit.
"Beats being stuck in a hotel room."
Suddenly, a gust of wind hits the balloon broadside. The basket jerks violently, swinging to the left. My stomach drops. I lose my footing on the woven floor and stumble backward, slamming hard against Hans's chest.
His arms shoot out to steady me, wrapping around my waist. It's a reflex, a safety measure, but his grip is iron. The sort of clench I reserve for Marco's wood inside me.
I gasp, my hands clutching at his biceps to keep from falling.
"Easy there," he rumbles, the vibration travelling through his chest and into my back.
"Just a thermal. We're fine."
I don't move away. I'm pressed against him, my ass flush with his thighs, my back against his hard chest.
The adrenaline from the drop mixes with something else, something hotter. I feel his cock, half-hard and thick, pressing against my lower back through the layers of denim and canvas.
"Sorry," I whisper, but I don't release myself from his arms.
Instead, my fingers dig into the muscle of his forearms.
"Don't be," he says.
His voice drops an octave. He doesn't let go of my waist either. His thumbs brush the strip of skin exposed between my crop top and my shorts, sending electric jolts down my spine. I feel my girly slit leak private jus.
I tilt my head back, looking up at him. The sun is just cresting the horizon, painting the sky in hues of violet and bruised orange, illuminating the sharp lines of his face. His eyes are dark, locked onto mine.
The professional mask has slipped.
I turn in his arms, breaking the contact with the railing but staying within the circle of his embrace. I look up at him, licking my lips. The air up here is thin, making me dizzy, or maybe it's purely him.
"Screw Marco," I whisper.
"Yeah, a woman like you should never be alone in paradise."
He lowers his head, his lips crashing into mine.
It's not a gentle kiss. It's hungry, aggressive, tasting of coffee and confidence. His tongue invades my mouth, dominating me instantly. I moan into his mouth, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The basket sways again, a gentle rock that mimics the motion of our bodies.
He spins me around, pushing me back against the wicker wall. The rough texture digs into my shoulder blades. Hans towers over me, his large hands framing my face. He kisses down my neck, biting the sensitive skin where my pulse hammers against my throat.
His hand sliding down to cup my breast through the thin lace.
I gasp, arching my back as his thumb grazes my nipple. It hardens instantly, pouting, seeking additional touch.
Hans drops to his knees.
"I recognised you, model covers, you've done winery promotions—"
The sight of this rugged, powerful pilot kneeling at my feet in a wicker basket suspended a thousand feet in the air is so filthy it makes my pussy throb.
"Shut up and ravish me, hunk!"
He unbuttons my cutoffs with agonising slowness, slipping them slowly down, along with my panties.
The cool air hits my wet slit, but his warm breath follows immediately.
He blows warm air over my pussy.
"Oohh, yes, Oohh, mmm, mmm."
If I thought that was good, he spreads my pleats and blasts hot air directly into my love canal.
"Orrgh! Fuck! That's divine. Ooh! Oohh!"
He hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, fully opening me up to him.
"Look down, world's best view," he commands.
And there's me in my gaping biological glory. Freshly shaved helps.
He taps me to look wider, "The backdrop ain't too bad either."
I look over his shoulder. The Barossa Valley is sprawling beneath us, the vineyards looking like neat grid lines on a green tablecloth.
Anyone could look up. Couldn't see us. But that thought makes me wetter.
Then his mouth smashes onto my womanhood.
I cry out, my head falling back against the wicker.
"Mmm, yeah! Yes, mmm! Mmm!"
His tongue is flat and wide, lapping at my opening. He eats me with a ferocity that borders on violent, sucking my clit into his mouth and flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue.
He treats me like a glass of wine sampled. The tilt of his tongue, the swirling rim of his tip on my crinkled, folded pleats. The snap of his tongue lifts my fleshy cowl. My pink bead appraised like a quality olive. A delicate nibble, a delightful warm blow, then his flashing tongue tip; direct hit, direct hit, repeated flicks on, over, under and around my clitty.
"Fuck, yes," I hiss, grinding my hips against his face.
My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him in place; "Eat, eat that pussy."
He groans into my flesh, the vibration sending shockwaves through my core. He slides two fingers inside me, curling them upward to find that spot that makes me close my eyes. He pumps them in and out, fucking me with his hand while his tongue works my clit.
"Aahh! So good! So fuckin' good! Aahh! Aahh! Aahh!"
The pleasure builds fast, a tight coil in my belly.
His finger slides my juices to my tush. He adds the divine, a soft rimming.
The wind whips around us, the burner roars intermittently, but all I can focus on is the heat between my legs.
"I'm gonna cum," I pant, my thighs trembling; "Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."
He doubles his efforts, sucking hard on my clit while his fingers piston into my soaking wet hole.
My orgasm crashes over me, violent and sharp. Pops from my flesh like a grape squeezed. My juices seep, and the tacky white fem-cum emerges too.
"Orrghh! Aagghh!"
I scream, my back arching off the wicker, my vision whiting out.
No control! I gush on his hand, my waterworks coating his fingers and chin.
Before the spasms even subside, Hans is standing up. He wipes his glistening mouth with the back of his hand and unzips his flight suit.
He pulls his cock out. It's massive, thick, a genuine bush snake, and the head is rigid purple with need.
"Turn around," he orders, his voice rough with lust.
I obey instantly, bracing my hands on the rim of the basket. I look down at the world below. The tiny cars, the ant-people. I am completely exposed, bent over in a basket in the sky.
He kicks my legs apart. I feel the head of his dick nudging at my entrance, slick with my own cum.
"You want this?" he asks, teasing me, sliding the head up and down my slit.
"Fuck me," I demand, pushing my ass back against him; "Put that dick in me. Fuck me right over the valley."
He grips my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to bruise, and slams into me in one commanding thrust.
"Ah!" I scream, the sensation of being so full, so stretched, stealing my breath.
He doesn't wait for me to adjust. He sets a punishing rhythm, slamming his hips against my ass. The basket creaks and sways with every thrust, adding a terrifying thrill to the pleasure.
The skin of his thighs slaps against the back of mine, a loud, wet sound that carries in the open air.
"Look at them," he grunts, reaching forward to grab a handful of my hair and pulling my head up.
"Look at all those people down there. They have no idea you're getting your tight little cunt fucked a thousand feet above their heads."
I look down, the world blurring through my tears of pleasure.
My response, "Orrghh! Aagghh!"
He pounds into me harder, deeper. The angle is perfect, hitting my G-spot with every stroke. I can feel the tension building again, a different pressure this time.
Hans growls, releasing my hair to grab my shoulder, pulling me back onto him even harder. "God, you have a tight pussy."
I cry out, "Make me cum on your cock!"
He reaches around, his fingers finding my clit again. He rubs it in tight circles as he drills into me. The dual stimulation is too much. My legs shake uncontrollably.
"I'm cumming!" I shriek, my knuckles turning white as I grip the basket rim.
"I'm cumming! Orgh! Aahh!"
My pussy clamps down on him, rippling around his thick shaft. He roars, burying himself to the hilt inside me. I feel him throb, pulse after pulse, filling me with his hot, sticky seed.
He holds me there, pinned against him, as we ride out the aftershocks, suspended in the silent, open sky, floating over the valley while his cum drips down my thighs.
High white clouds above, globs of jizz dribbling past my knees, settling on my toes and sandal straps, below white cockatoos settling on gums.
Hans eases the jets; we start the controlled descent.
"First chardonnay is on me, fruity peach and melon flavours—"
I flip his jaw, "Yeah, yeah, and my slick oyster can be the hors d'oeuvre—"