Rogue Swapper - Long Flight

 

I'm Ryan, and I'm cutting it way too close at the airport. My flight's boarding in minutes, and I hate being last. I always race to be first so I can snag overhead space for my bag without fighting anyone. Sprinting through the terminal, shoes pounding, heart racing, carry-on thumping against my side. The gate's in sight, thank fuck.

I barrel around a corner and slam right into someone. A hooded guy stumbles back, and next to him a voluptuous woman in a tight black sweater yelps, her massive tits jiggling from the impact. "Shit, sorry!" I mutter, barely slowing down, charging past them toward the gate. A sudden flash blinds me, bright as hell, like a camera went off in my face. I blink hard, vision spotting, but keep moving. I stumble momentarily in my heels, maybe I should have worn shoes, but adrenaline's pumping so I ignore it.

I reach the gate, panting, hand over my ticket. The attendant scans it, smiles big. "Welcome aboard, ma'am. Right this way." Ma'am? I shoot her a look but brush it off, probably just a mix-up. Everyone in line stares as I board, eyes lingering too long on my chest, whispers I can't quite catch. Weird, but whatever, I'm on the plane, that's all that matter to me.

Overhead bin's half full already, I knew I should have left earlier. I hoist my bag, struggling more than usual, arms straining. Damn, I need to hit the gym harder, I think, finally shoving it in. Straighten my outfit, this black cardigan thing over a gray top, feels snug across my chest. I slide into my aisle seat and the middle guy glances over and mutters under his breath, "Great, I'm sitting next to a trans." What the actual fuck? I try to ignore him, cross my arms over my chest, feeling a little self conscious.

Flight takes off smooth and the cabin lights dim. Once we're cruising, I grab my toiletry bag and head to the lavatory to freshen up. I lock the door, the tight space smelling like sanitizer and recycled air, turn to the mirror and look at myself.

My face is tired, baggy eyebags, short dark hair and stubble. I look pass my neck to my hourglass curves, smooth skin, massive tits barely contained by this gray tank, and my black cardigan open. I pull the tank down a bit, watching my tits spill out, heavy and round, nipples dark and perky. Hands cup them instinctively, flesh soft, warm, a jolt shooting straight between my legs when I squeeze. How can anyone mistake me for a woman with these? I pat between my legs, my newly shaved pussy lips, puffy under my tight jeans, a faint dampness seeping through. Can't wait to get home to my partner.

Then I think about it more, why's everyone acting so strange? Flight attendants calling me ma'am, that asshole seatmate whispering trans like I'm some freak. Are they all Idiots? They see a guy with killer tits and a cunt and they think he's a woman? The fuck? Whatever.

I fish out my phone, angle it for the mirror. Pull the tank lower, tits fully out now, nipples hardening in the cool air, goosebumps racing over the cleavage. Snap a few selfies, one squeezing them together, another pinching a nipple, biting my lip at the spark that hits my clit. I hike the cardigan off one shoulder for a better shot, tits heaving with each breath.

Perfect. Gary's gonna lose it when I send these after landing. "Miss you, babe," I'll caption them. Maybe add a tease about joining the mile-high club next time he's with me. I tuck the girls back in, their mass straining the fabric. I unlock the door, and with my heels clicking, I head back to my seat, ignoring the stares again. People are so judgmental! Can't a guy have nice tits without the drama?