"Emilio, you're sweet, but it's our honeymoon," the drunken young
groom said with a grin, "We'll take it from here alone." He planted a
big wet kiss on Emilio's startled lips, and then slammed the airplane
head door in Emilio's face.
Emilio looked down at his tented trousers. He glanced at the other
head door it was occupied. He leaned his ear against the door that
the young couple had entered, and grinned evilly as he pretended to
wait for a vacant head. He adjusted his jacket to conceal his tented
trousers. He was breathing hard in sexual excitement, when he heard
the loud click of the door opposite him opening. He turned sideways
and looked sheepishly, and covering his crotch.
"Oh, excuse me," said the old matron exiting.
"Excuse me. Queasy," Emilio muttered as he rushed passed her and
closed the door locking it.
In seconds his pants were around his ankles, and his hand gripped his
red spandex outlined cock and started masturbating. Connor had
expected to be around the Italian's ankles, but it was not to be. He
was horrified. He had visions of Emilio blowing his load, and
disposing of soiled Connor in the jetliner's toilet or trash chute.
Neither situation would afford Connor a chance to resume his human
form.
"Ah, si, si, si," moaned Emilio as he leaned back and ejaculated into
Connor.
SLURP.
Connor hadn't meant to - he certainly didn't know how he had done it -
but every last drop of Emilo's load was neatly and completely absorbed
by the fabric which was Connor.
"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" Emilio muttered in French as he examined his
dry crotch. He chuckled, and sat down to recover himself.