The Knight and the Acolyte Book 8 Chapter 8 Impaled by the Minotaur
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Hold At Minot free porn video
I'd left Edmonton two hours earlier than planned, knowing that the cold front and snow forecast for central Alberta would influence local weather for the next several days. My Piper Saratoga had been checked and fueled, and I was determined to get as far south and east as I could before being overtaken by the front.
Instinctively I knew that being overtaken in Regina or Minot or Bismarck or Pierre was successively preferable to being caught in a small airplane in the western steppes of Canada in November.
Apart from a urinal/coffee/gas/weather/urinal stop in Regina I spent the entire day barely one step ahead of the front. Regrettably the front did not stop for rest, and must have known that I could fly no farther that day than Minot, my airport of entry to the U.S.
Notwithstanding - and perhaps precisely because of the autopilot on my Saratoga - I'd been close to being ravaged by the lusty arms of Morpheus when I touched down at Minot International Airport, so late in the day that US Customs had hours earlier abandoned the field for the day. Quite possibly they sought the warmth and camaraderie of a local bar or pub, or the hearth of home. In any event, despite its impressive name, Minot was at this time of day and this time of year an uncontrolled field, meaning that it had no control tower to manage the flow of air traffic in and out of the field. And this time of year, traffic was light.
I landed C4549X and taxied up to one of the several painted "customs" circles on the tarmac where private international flights must wait to be "cleared" by customs officials. N2490R, a Piper Malibu, must have landed just before me, since the pilot and two passengers - like me, and as required by US federal rules - were waiting in their airplane in its own separate customs circle. We must remain there till cleared.
The "N", ("November") at the beginning of a plane's identifier indicates that the United State is the country of registration, just as "C" ("Charlie") at the from of my airplane's identifier told all who cared to notice that I was registered by Transport Canada as Canadian.
By this time, my bladder was dismayed to learn from operations that it would take the better part of an hour - and a surcharge in US currency for the after-hours visit by custom officials - before I would be able to stagger to the urinal in the operations building.
I was sufficiently afraid that my penis might turn into an uncontrolled tower of its own that I defied both custom and customs by slipping out of the airplane for a leak, being careful to remain within the white painted circle to which I was confined by US law. As my abdominal cavity adjusted to my massive release of body fluids, I noticed 25 feet or so off to my right the young pilot of N2490R managing his own "tower" in much the same way.
"I suppose I was a jerk for having that last cup of coffee in Regina," I yelled across the short distance that separated us, as we both continued to water the tarmac.
"I earned my jerk status at the coffee shop in Saskatoon," he responded with a grin that expressed youth and humor. We zipped up more or less at the same time and still within our separate painted circles. "I guess that makes us members of the same circle jerk club, eh?" he said with a boyish grin.
I laughed audibly, as I pictured the young man sitting with his boyhood chums and all whacking off so everyone could watch and whack together. It was reassuring to know that young group male sex is not an exclusively Canadian pastime. He added: "Yup, but now it's time to pull that little fella back into his little cotton cock-pit, right?"
I laughed again, and he patted his crotch and sighed. "See ya inside, guy," he yelled before stepping back into the Malibu.
I chuckled, said something un-memorable, then retreated to my plane. Alone now as I waited for Customs to arrive, I pondered our short exchange and the extra attention we'd just given to our shared maleness. The simile of the "cock-pit" was as old as flying, but hearing it from this hot looking young charter jock stirred something inside of me.
He was slightly under six feet in height, no more that 180 pounds, about 33" at the waist, and looked to be in his early twenties; but these droll specifications slipped into insignificance against the background of the magnificent 7"+ shaft that I'd seen moments ago retracted into to the warmth and comfort of his 501's.
Having no passengers to afford digression from these meditations, I decided simply to enjoy the slight arousal that this ambiguous exchange had spawned in my groin. I'd been on the ground at Minot less than ten minutes, and already I shifted the core of my self perceptions from that of being a pilot to that of being male, and clearly in need of a form of relief that my last trip to the tarmac could not provide. I wondered and wished that the same were true of my American counterpart. For whatever reason, probably somehow grounded on hope, I held off treating myself to the traditional form of release traditional among charter jocks stranded and alone in North Dakota in late November.
My recollections of the ensuing hour or so flip by my mind's thumb with no clear order of occurrence. Customs came and went; and the next scene which made it past short-term memory was of Brad (as he had subsequently introduced himself) and me pouring over the computer display from the National Weather Service, and an assortment of low altitude flight charts lying on the adjacent table. Invoking this service by a DUAT terminal in the now deserted flight operations room, Brad and I soon discovered that his trip to Minneapolis and mine to Boston were on indefinite hold for at least twenty-four hours, courtesy of the Alberta Clipper.
His passengers - who turned out to be honest-to-goodness Eskimos from the Northwest Territories - had left for more sensible quarters at the "American Inn" just off the field, alert now to the inevitability of having to spend an unplanned day in North Dakota. What Eskimos might wish to do in this middle American college town is beyond my powers to imagine; but I knew that I would have to come up with answers for myself than were more stimulating that staring at weather systems as reported in NWS code.
Engaging my sexual auto(erotic)pilot, I launched into a string of double entendre that should smoke out any companionable interests of his own on the general theme of male intimacy.
"I could use an approaching warm front just about now," I said, again in pursuit of a double "respondre" from Brad.
Brad's hands gripped the front corners of the computer terminal as though he were used to being in charge of all within his reach, and acting as if he had not even heard my last and meteorologically irrelevant comment. "Well, from the looks of it, you and I are the only warm fronts in sight," he grinned, and moved over to the map table.
I glowed internally at his response, as if it had been a signal of recognition, coded for support and encouragement. No way would I not follow up with more. "Converging fronts could make for a fun day, eh Brad?," I offered.
"Yup, and there's no way we're going to escape this mother," he said. The frontal system extends all the way back to BC, and it's close and heading this. Low pressure, cold temperatures, and lots of moisture. Snow, snow, and more snow."
He shook his head and said: "Well, we've sure been here before haven't we, Chris." Nodding assent, I found myself very pleased indeed at having to spend a little time with this cute young American flyer.
The decor of Minot flight operations and "pilots' lounge," in addition to what we needed to plan and file IFR flight plans, consisted of a Pepsi machine, a "snack" machine, a TV, and a rather broken-in/down couch.
After rites of introduction most pilots tend to display in such circumstances, I learned that Brad also was a charter pilot, ferrying two Eskimo entrepreneurs from a village near Great Slave Lake to a meeting with their venture capitalists in Minneapolis to discuss financing for a northland casino. Brad was based in Duluth, some 800 kilometers (500 miles) or so west of my home base at "CYSB" (Sudbury, Ontario).
"A pocket of high pressure is driving this front," Brad said as if in mocking meditation of maps and weather. The "front" of his Levi's now rested at the right front corner of the map table so that the bulging "pocket" of his crotch rested prominently at the table's surface clearly for my visual benefit.
Adopting a similar posture at the table's left front, I traced a line with my finger from just in front of my own crotch to just in front of his, and said: "It seems to me that high pressure gradients run from about here to about here, and are building."
"You're right, Chris," he retorted, escalating the level of double entendre, "and there's considerable moisture in these two converging fronts that we're gonna have to deal with over the next twenty-four hours." "I certainly hope so," I retorted.
I was amazed and delighted that Brad was playing along with such vigor in my verbal artifice, with remarks no less sexual in innuendo than they were related to flight, and equally on the money.
"See," he pointed to the monitor, "we actually have converging frontal systems, that will combine over North Dakota and inevitably result in precip. Moisture in fronts like these can build up only so far before having to release explosively."
I smiled at the image of "precip" from his "frontal system," and its "explosive release," just as I'd hoped his smile meant that he was thinking the same of mine.
Stretching his body forward now over the table's top left corner as if to point to a distant spot on the map, his well packed pouch slipped smoothly further onto the work surface. I recall that he made some reference to the trouble "occluded fronts" can cause to pilots, to which I responded that "... they only cause trouble if they get squeezed on map tables."
"Well," he chuckled openly at that last one, "the clever pilot always finds relief from occlusion." "Yeh," I retorted, "but seldom without hands-on help from Flight Service or a very good friend." He doubled up with laughter, and flopped on the couch to recover.
"You know, Chris," he said, "being from Duluth, I really know how to take care of myself in the face of advancing Canadian frontal systems."
"I'd expect no less, Brad," I quickly answered, "and since systems rarely advance from south to north, I'd need a lot of help in dealing with any front advancing into Canada from the south."
"You're in luck," he came back, "I'm a known authority on the subject, and at your service."
"Hmmmm," was all I could think to respond, and silently to myself at that.
"I'll be right back, Chris," he said pulling away from the map table, and grabbing hold of his crotch, "My body's experiencing a rapid moisture buildup and my temperature is approaching the do... , er, dew... point, so I better hit the head before I'm embarrassed by premature precip. In short, I have to take a leak. Be right back."
At the thought of any feeling this hot guy's body might be having, I said almost reflexively "I have to go too." We shuttled off to men's room together.
Looking down and to his right as we performed our respective bodily functions at adjacent urinals, he said with a chuckle "Well, it's comforting to know that Canadian cocks aren't as mythically huge as the stories that go around Duluth."
"We have ways of making such stories true, though," pulling back on my cock and pressing in on my pubic bone so that it more or less projected out straight and semi-hard. "It takes lots of practice, however." With a final shake, I stuffed my manhood back through my fly and backed away so that I could watch him.
Finished now with the overt reason for standing next to me with his cock sticking out through the fly of his jeans, he turned and with a gesture similar to my own pulled back on his shaft so that it protruded out and up, gyrating his hips and wagging his throbbing dick much in the manner of a stripper. "How's that," he asked. "Aren't I a quick learner? Maybe I'm just very observant and have paid very good attention during my visits to Norma Jean's when I've held over at CYSB. Now all I need is that practice you were talking about to be really good."
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