I’m gonna get caught.
I know it. I fucking know it. Every time I open my muzzle I swear I smell it—booze bleeding out my breath, my sweat, even my fucking fur. Bourbon and bad decisions, bubbling under the collar of a borrowed uniform.
I scroll the pre-flight checklist with paws that shake more than I want to admit. Engine diagnostics, fuel weight, weather routing, hydraulics pressure—my eyes skim and log it all, but my brain’s still catching up to the fact that I woke up twenty-three minutes ago in a bed that wasn’t mine, with lipstick on my cock and a hangover that feels like I fucked a thunderstorm.
Sunglasses hide the bags under my eyes. I’m chewing mint gum like it’s a survival ration. My tie’s only halfway clipped. And Captain Flint still isn’t here. I glance at the cockpit clock. He’s late. That makes me more nervous.
Captain Flint’s never late.
Ex-military. Former combat pilot. And a wolf through and through—broad-shouldered, stone-faced, with a baritone voice that cuts through turbine whine like a blade. I’ve flown with him a couple times before. He never says much. Just barked headings and stared through me like I was some silver-spoon brat cashing in Daddy’s jet hours instead of a co-pilot trying to build flight time.
Which—fine. I am a rich brat with a trust fund. But I’m also damn good in the air.
Normally.
Today? I nearly clipped a fucking service truck just taxiing into position. I take another swig of water. My paw shakes when I set it down. I should’ve called in sick. I should’ve begged off, blamed food poisoning, taken the hit to my hours. But I need this block logged by the end of the quarter or my training schedule’s fucked. And Daddy’s already threatening to cut off the Black Card if I delay graduation again.
So here I am. Coasting off three hours’ sleep, half-hard from the memory of the doe who blew me in the backseat of my rental before spreading her legs and giving me her sweet pussy, and praying Flint doesn’t smell the hangover leaking out my pores.
I run the APU startup. Everything’s green. The cabin’s empty—no catering, no crew. Just me in the cockpit, wrapped in my own nervous sweat and wishing I had ten more minutes to get my shit together. I tug my tie tighter. Wipe my pads on my slacks. Smell them.
Fuck.
Still reek of pussy. Expensive perfume. Hotel soap. A hint of latex. I really need to clean up.
Then I hear the stair door open. Heavy boots. No rush. No greeting. I don’t even have to look. I know that walk.
Captain Flint.
I freeze. Eyes forward. Tail stiff. This is it. He’s gonna smell it. The funk. The booze. The guilt. He’s gonna sniff once, look me dead in the eye, and pull the keys. And my whole fucking career’s gonna nosedive.
He steps into the cockpit. Says nothing. Just drops his duffel behind the seat, slides into place, and pulls on his gloves like he’s done it a thousand times—and I’m just another body in the right-hand chair.
I start calling numbers like I’m not shitting myself. “Flaps to five. Fuel set. Transponder primed. Hydraulic pwesh-shurr within—uh—range.”
Silence.
I feel his eyes. Not moving. Not blinking. Just watching. My cock twitches in my pants, confused why we’re not still inside last night’s snatch.
He clears his throat. Leans forward. Cracks his knuckles. Then flips the comms switch.
Click.
“Tower, this is Flight Two-One-Tango. Prepped and ready for taxi.”
His voice is low. Flat. Controlled. Professional. They answer. We roll. I exhale. Slowly.
Maybe I got away with it.
Maybe the gum worked. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he’s too tired to notice. Maybe my stupid rich fox charm actually worked this time. I relax into the chair, finally letting the seatbelt click across my lap. The plane shudders softly as we pull off the line and taxi to the runway. Flint hasn’t said more than three words. No small talk. No “how’s your night.” Just checklists and silence.
The cabin’s empty today—no passengers, no crew. Just us. I think we’re hauling a load of contracted parts and paperwork to some cold-ass military airfield in the middle of nowhere. Which is perfect, honestly. Fewer eyes. Fewer questions. We line up on the tarmac. Engines spool. He nods. I throttle up. The bird responds Wheels up. We climb. Altitude feeds into my bloodstream. The pressure in my head eases. I lean back just a little, trying to stretch the tension out of my spine.
Captain Flint exhales through his nose. Loud. Annoyed. Then, without looking at me, he mutters, “Haven’t had a proper fuck in three months.”
My ears flick. “Sir?”
“Wife’s pregnant again,” he says, like it’s a weather update.
Gods. I blink. “How many pups is that now, Captain?” I ask, trying to keep it casual. “I thought you already had, what… six? Seven?”
He snorts. “Eight. This’ll be nine. Assuming she carries the little fucker to full term.”
I glance sideways, can’t help myself. “It’s a wonder her cunt can hold this one in. I’m surprised you can feel anything when you fuck her. She must be loose as hell” I mean it as a joke. A shitty one, sure. But still.
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move. Just adjusts his headset and stares straight ahead like I didn’t speak. I swallow. Loud in my own ears.
Okay. So that topic’s off-limits. Noted.
The instruments blink. Auto-flight stabilizes. The air smooths out. Altitude: 35,000 feet. We’re officially cruising.
I exhale again, letting my tail shift against the seat. Maybe I really did dodge it. Maybe I’m in the clear. Maybe we’ll both sit in this cockpit, ignore each other for the next two hours, and land without incident.
That’s what I’m thinking.
Right up until Captain Flint reaches down and unzips his flight pants.
Zzzip.
The sound’s unmistakable. Loud in the quiet hum of cruising altitude. I freeze. My paw hovers mid-air above the nav panel. I turn my head, slow, like maybe I heard wrong. Like maybe the captain’s just adjusting something, or scratching, or—anything but what it is.
But no. Captain Flint’s seat is reclined just enough to angle his hips forward, flight slacks wide open, black briefs pushed down beneath a sheath that’s already fat, already heavy, already shaft half out.
I stare. “Er Captain?” I ask, ears high, voice cracking at the end.
He doesn’t even look at me.
“This cock ain’t gonna suck itself, flyboy.”
I blink. Twice. “…I’m sorry, what?”
Now he turns. Those steely blue eyes lock onto mine, flat and unreadable. His voice drops into that low, rumbling register you only get from ex-military male wolves who don’t ask twice.
“You had no business showin’ up in your condition this morning,” he says. “I smelled the liquor before you opened your mouth. You were slow on taxi. You slurred ‘hydraulic pressure.’ You think I didn’t notice?” I open my muzzle. Nothing comes out. “I almost wrote you up,” he continues, calm as death. “Almost grounded you. Almost made a call that would send you packing back to your rich little daddy, wasting all that money he probably donated to that private academy to grease your way through. But…”
His sheath swells.
“…you’ve got pretty lips for a fox.”
My mouth goes dry. He shifts in his seat, spreading his legs slightly. The fabric of his seat creaks, and his sheath bulges visibly now—red pushing free. I catch a whiff of it through the recycled cabin air. Sharp. Earthy. Sweaty. A bit of piss. “My wife’s three months pregnant,” he says. “Back hurts. Mood swings. Not puttin’ out. Not for a while now. So you’re gonna be useful, boy.”
“Captain, I—” I try, voice strangled.
“You suck me off, I land this plane and forget everything. I don’t write up the incident, don’t call your instructor, don’t end your flight hours over one sloppy night.”
I swallow hard. My tail curls under the seat.
“You don’t suck me off,” he says, finally turning to face me full on, “and I open a full report the second we land. And believe me, I’ll make it sting.”
The cabin’s quiet. The pressure in the cockpit feels heavier than before. I glance down. His cock’s halfway out now. Dark red. Thick. Already beading at the tip.
I stare at it. I’m straight. Practically a fucking womaniser. I’ve had more pussy than warm meals — tight little does, needy vixens, eager co-eds with their claws on my belt before I’ve even closed the door. But I’ve never had a wolf unzip beside me mid-flight, flop out a cock thicker than a regulation joystick, and growl, “Start sucking, or start job hunting.”
And something in me cracks. I’m not thinking anymore. Not about my license. My rep. My life. I just move. Harness unclips. Knees hit the cockpit floor like I’ve done this before. Like I’m trained for this.
And there it is. Flint’s cock. Thick. Heavy. Hanging like a goddamn threat. Not even hard yet and already bigger than anything I’ve ever seen — fuck, it looks mean. Red crown peeking from a mottled sheath, skin glistening with sweat and pre. His smell hits like a heatwave. Musk. Salt. That thick, swampy reek of cockpit sweat and fur-drenched briefs — like his balls have been slow-roasting in his flight suit since wheels-up. The kind of funk that clings to your tongue before you even get your lips on him. I gag just from the stench — and leak in my pants anyway.
“All that talk about how much pussy you crush…” His voice is low. Flat. “Let’s see how that mouth handles cock.” I swallow hard. “Start with the tip.”
I hesitate — stupid, wide-eyed, stunned — and that’s when his paw lands on the back of my neck. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just final. The head slides past my lips and my throat tightens. I gag immediately — nose flooded with the stink of dominance, testosterone, raw alpha pressure. My cock jerks in my pants, helpless. I don’t even try to explain it.
He exhales — slow, guttural. A pleased sound from deep in his chest. “Fuckin’ hell. That mouth was wasted on twat.” I start to pull back. His paw catches the back of my neck. Not rough. Just in charge. “Deep breath, flyboy. Get it in. I want your snout on my sheath by touchdown.”
He swells in my mouth, thickening with every inch. My lips stretch. My jaw burns. Every part of him tastes like sweat, command, and cocky veteran power. It’s disgusting. It’s overpowering. It’s… addictive. And he knows it.
“You like this,” he growls, hips flexing just enough to make me whimper.
“I—I don’t,” I mumble around him.
“No?” he pants, grinding deeper. “Then why’s your fuckin’ tail waggin’?” I freeze — then feel it. The traitorous flick at the base of my spine. He chuckles low. “That’s what I thought.” Then he shifts his seat back further, spreading his legs, making room. “All the way down, pup. Nose to sheath.”
I obey. There’s no finesse. My lips stretch wide, my jaw already aching, and Flint’s cock thickens against my tongue like it’s gaining weight with every second. The heat of it, the taste — salt, musk, a hint of something bitter — rolls down my throat. He’s not even pretending to be gentle now. One paw stays at the back of my skull, heavy, directing. The other rests on the throttle — like he’s flying both the jet and my mouth at once.
“Fuck, you’ve got a good snout,” he growls. “Bet it’s the first time it’s been used proper.”
Then he starts thrusting. Short and sharp at first, testing my resistance. Then deeper. More forceful. Until the cockpit’s filled with slrk slrk glrk—wet, humiliating sounds of a fox getting face-fucked mid-air.
“Breathe through your nose, pup,” he says.
I try. But his length steals my breath, over and over. Each time he bottoms out, the ridge of his sheath brushes my lips and the base of his cock punches the back of my throat. I gag—once, twice—but he holds me steady. The scent of him is everywhere now. Wild. Sweaty. Male. It’s seeping into my sinuses, burning behind my eyes. Every time he slides out, a fresh wave of heat clings to my tongue — pre, thick and sour, coating everything.
“That’s it,” he pants. “Good little fucktoy. Use that pretty mouth. Get me off.”
My head bobs on instinct. I’m not even thinking anymore — I’m working, drool streaming down my chin, neck craned, lips sliding over the slick girth of a cock I should’ve never touched. My own starts to swell in my trousers, untouched, aching. His hips grinding into my face. His scent thickens. The control panel beeps softly behind us, autopilot holding steady. The only turbulence now… is me.
He starts fucking my face. “Don’t waste my time gagging.”
I try. I really try. But every time he bottoms out, my throat closes. His cock slams against the back of my tongue, and the air rushes from my lungs. My ears ring. My eyes flood. I choke on him — again and again.
And he loves it.
His hips roll. I feel the burn in my throat, the heat of his shaft, the scent of him pouring down my muzzle like I’ve been stuffed with something feral and wrong. My cock pulses untouched in my pants, and I don’t even care anymore. And then—pressure. A thick, swelling bulb grinding against my lips, too wide, too sudden. I whimper around him as his knot pulses, demanding more space than I have to give. It bruises. Spreads my jaw until I think it’ll crack. My lips stretch, slick and raw.
His voice is low. Growling. “Gonna spunk,” he snaps. “You better swallow all of it.”
I try to breathe—but there’s no room left. His cock throbs once, twice—and then the knot surges again. I brace myself—
—and then he’s there.
His cock jerks in my mouth, and cum floods down my throat like molten salt. Too much. Too thick. Too fast. I swallow on instinct, but the second wave hits before I finish the first. I choke. My gag reflex flares—too late. Cum floods backward through my sinuses, burning as it spurts from my nose. He holds my skull firm, driving his knot harder into my muzzle. It doesn’t fit. It’s not meant to. I feel my lips bruising around it, hear my own glrks and sputters echo off the cockpit glass. Still, he pumps more into me.
“Fuck yeah,” he pants. “Get it all. Guzzle it down. Good little cumrag.”
I’m crying now. Literally. Tears stream from my eyes as my body convulses on the floor, belly filling with wolf seed, lungs heaving for air that won’t come. When the last twitch hits, his paw finally lifts. I collapse backward, throat raw, nostrils flaring, coughing his load onto my uniform—thick, slick ropes matting my chest and soaking into the fabric. My muzzle stinks. My lips are numb. There’s cum in my fur, in my throat, and still leaking from my nose. The inside of my throat aches. My eyes are bloodshot. My flight suit’s soaked at the crotch. A dark, wet patch spreads across the front—warm, sticky, and mine. I blink, stunned. I didn’t even touch myself. Didn’t notice it happen. But my cock must’ve unloaded sometime while he was drowning me in his jizz. Right there, kneeling, choking on his knot like a needy little pup.
I glance at the altimeter. 35.000 ft.
Like nothing ever happened.
The cockpit smells like sweat and regret. My lips are swollen. My throat’s raw. My nose still burns from cum in the wrong pipe, and my uniform’s ruined — soaked across the chest in drying wolf spunk, with a wet patch at my crotch I don’t even remember making.
Captain Flint doesn’t say a word to me. He leans forward, flicks the comm. “Tower, this is Two-One-Tango. Requesting vectors for visual approach, runway two-three. Smooth ride all the way down.”
His voice: calm, clipped, confident. Like he didn’t just use my throat as a fucktoy thirty thousand feet in the air. I sit there blinking, trying not to choke every time I breathe in. The scent of his cum is everywhere. It lives in my fur now. It’s in my sinuses. I can taste him when I swallow.
Half an hour later, we touch down like nothing happened. Once we’re parked, he powers down systems like the checklist’s the only thing that matters.
“Flight log’s updated,” he says. “Maintenance flagged. You’ll file the post-op?”
I nod, mute.
He unbuckles and stands. Then leans close. “Scheduling’s expecting my partner request for the next quarter,” he murmurs, scratching his chin. “I figure you’re mine now. Next trip’s longer. Overnight layover. No crew. You’ll want to prep your tailhole before we board — ‘cause you’ll be taking my knot until my wife pushes out our new cub and starts putting out again.”
I flinch. “Sir, I—”
“You want to keep flying?” he says, cocked brow.
I swallow.
“Then keep being useful. Hey—” he grins, sharp, “I’ll let you sit on it the first time. Ease you into it. Let that tight little fox hole stretch slow while you lose your cherry like a good pup.”
I freeze.
He pulls back, smirking. “After that?” A pause. “I’ll ride you raw until I’m shooting pups in you every leg of each flight.”
He zips up, grabs his bag, and exits.
I stagger after him. As I step onto the tarmac, the heat hits me — and so does the stench. My muzzle reeks. There’s wolf cum crusting under my collar, clinging to my chest fur, soaked through my flight suit. I can taste it again when I breathe — bitter and thick, still dripping from my nose.
And that’s when I see her. Talia. Cheetah. Cleaning crew. Bright vest. Tight uniform. We’ve fucked twice — good times, tight snatch, killer thighs. She spots me. Smiles. Then sniffs. Her eyes flare. Her nose twitches. Looks me up and down. Her whole face changes. She stops cold. Then veers hard, taking the long way around the plane without so much as a look back.
I stand there — dripping, reeking, my lips swollen, throat raw, the front of my uniform soaked in another male’s pups.
From the hangar, Flint’s voice cuts through the wind: “Better prep that tail, co-pilot — next flight, you’re riding my knot from takeoff to touchdown.”
I fish my keycard from my crusted pocket and trudge toward the terminal. Fuck my life.
And worse — my hole puckers as I think about our next flight.
Fuck!