Chuckling, I opened the packet and rolled it on. “Any other requests?”
Letting her gaze drift down, she said, “Your tongue was all right. Now show me what you can do with that cock, biker boy.”
Determined to make her eat that challenge, I lunged, grabbing a hold of her nice, round ass. She squealed as I held her still and buried myself deep in her pussy with a swear. She felt so damn good, better than anything I’d ever had before. For the first time since my accident, I wasn’t thinking about my leg or stressing about all the plans it had ruined. I finally felt free, no longer grounded by the reality of my situation. She dropped her head to the bed and held onto the sheets as I enjoyed the wildest, craziest night of my life.
Monica Johnson was a game changer. Just when I’d made peace with defeat, she rushed my court, rocked my world, and breathed life into my future. By the time she left the next morning, I wanted more out of life and was determined to get back in the game.
Monica
Four Months Later
I’VE BEEN OBSESSED with flying for as long as I can remember. While most kids spent their weekends binging cartoons or playing video games, I grew up watching History Channel documentaries on famous pilots. By the time I hit middle school, I’d heard every theory about Amelia Earhart’s disappearance, and knew James Doolittle crashed his first glider at fifteen. He was also the pilot who discovered that negative G-forces made blood pool in your head. I’d read all the reasons Robert Hoover was considered the greatest stick and rudder man who ever lived, and the ways he’d captured German and Japanese aircraft during World War II.
The idea of flying fascinated me like nothing else ever had.
Despite my long hours of curiosity-driven research, a fictional movie was what made me realize I wanted to be a pilot. When I was ten, my dad rented some 80’s movie named “Top Gun,” that set the course of my life in the clouds. From the moment Tom Cruise, as Maverick, turned his jet upside down to fly on top of another jet, I knew I would be a fighter pilot someday.
I didn’t give a damn about statistics or difficulty, I was determined to make it happen.
Needing to fly like I needed air in my lungs and blood in my veins, I spent the next few years devouring every ounce of knowledge I could about the Air Force, jets, and pilots. None of my friends or family members understood my obsession. They were all annoyingly indecisive or apathetic about their own career paths, and they found me too intense… too driven. People told me I needed hobbies or other plans for my future in case I didn’t make it in the Air Force, but I didn’t let anyone throw shade on my dream.
The first time I throttled up an F-16 and rocketed down the runway, I knew I was finally home, in the life I’d been born for. Every time I’ve settled into the cockpit since, an overwhelming sense of belonging reinforced that knowledge. My hard work and determination had earned me my wings and I would fight like hell to keep them.
Second Lieutenant Gordon waved as I entered the hangar. He was one of the newer pilots that I’d been helping train.
I gave him a nod. “Hey Jagger.” The young captain did all right in the air, but on the dance floor, he had the unfortunate moves of an aging rock-n-roll icon, earning him his call sign. “Moves like Jagger” was definitely not a compliment.
“Hey Queen M.” My call sign had come from an old instructor’s attempt to mock me, but I claimed the hell out of it. By God, I was a queen, my crown was an F-35 Lightning II, and the sky was my kingdom. Any little bitch-boys who tried to dethrone me could eat my vape. “How they hangin’?”
Joking was necessary to ease the tension of the position. I’d learned long ago I could either get offended by their vulgarity or play along. Playing along was a lot more fun. “Long, hairy, and hard to carry. You?”
He grinned like an idiot. “Long, loose, and full of juice.”
Laughing, I shook my head. “Sounds like your girl needs to get on her J-O-B.”
“That’s the problem; she’s working too damn much. I’m all pent up and we’ve got this training today.”
We were stateside, and I was scheduled to fly as Jagger’s wingman in an air-to-ground drill. “You got this shit, Gord,” I reminded him as we climbed into our cockpits and strapped in. Today we were both flying F-35s and I couldn’t have been happier about it. It had taken some time to convert me from the F-14, but nothing beat the situational awareness of the newer jets. “You’re a damn good pilot, ready for the next step in your career.” I had every faith he’d get the job done. We were in for one hell of a good day. “Stick with your plan, and it’ll be a piece of cake.”
“Copy. This shit is mine. Then we eat cake.” Nerves added strain to his voice, but that was normal. The threat of death—or even worse, failure—clung to the fighters like a bad odor. This was only a training mission, but we were far from safe. Pilots with more flight hours than me and Jagger combined had died in training accidents. Sometimes shit went sideways and no amount of experience or skill could set it right again. Flying a fighter was a gamble, and we knowingly rolled the dice each time we strapped in.
But I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.
Today’s training op was a typical fly in and drop. We took off, but stayed low. Nothing gets the adrenaline flowing like a little race through the weeds, and I was following Jagger at about 120 feet above the ground and clocking a little over 800 mph. The increased turbulence from our low elevation bumped me around as I watched Jagger’s six, anticipating the attack we knew was coming.
We reached the coordinates without getting bounced. Popping up to the appropriate altitude, I continued to scan the area while Jagger got a lock on the bombing parameters.
“Command, this is Jagger,” he said in my ear. “Target is acquired. Requesting permission to drop.”
“Copy. Permission granted.”
Jagger hit his mark like it was a magnetic bullseye. “Hit confirmed.”
Two F-16s appeared, flying in high and headed straight for us. “Tally two bandits, five o’clock high,” I reported. This was it; time to see how well Jagger’s plan worked.
“Copy.” He dropped back down into the weeds and I followed, banking right as he flew straight. Pushing the throttle to take me closer to 1,000 miles per hour, I led my pursuer away from Jagger and the bird on his tail. I was good at busting out of dogfights and could most likely outmaneuver and lose my bandit, but that wasn’t the plan. Jagger had chosen for us to attack rather than evade.
Flying at only about fifty feet above ground, adrenaline pumped through my veins as I watched all directions at once. Buzz Aldrin once said, “Fighter pilots have ice in their veins. They don’t have emotions. They think, anticipate. They know that fear and other concerns cloud your mind from what’s going on and what you should be involved in.” Flying so close to the ground, I had to agree, but this was where I excelled. This was where my reflexes kicked in and I learned to rely on my instincts.
